CONTENTS



INTRODUCTION

by Martin H. Greenberg

UNDER THE SKIN
by Michelle West

NETTED

by Josepha Sherman

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

by Rosemary Edghitl

BELLE BLOODY MERCILESS DAME
by Jane Yolen

THE LAST WARRIOR

by Tim Waggoner

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

by Paul Edwin Zimmer

A SOUL TO BE GAINED
by Blake Cahoon

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

Brooks Peck

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

by Lawrence Schimel

THE MARBLE KING
by Gary A. Braunbeck

vii

9

11

31

39

65

69

85

110

124

139

150

viii	Contents

THE CEILIDH
by Connie Hirsch

KIND HUNTER

by Pati Nagle

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

ELF HELP

by John DeChancie

WITH HIS OWN WINGS
by Bruce Holland Rogers

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY
by Peter Crowther

MORTAL THINGS
by Esther Friesner

MY LORD TEASER

by Richard Parks

171

185

197

240

253

260

274

292

INTRODUCTION

Imagine, just for a moment, that you are not reading
this introduction, but are instead walking the gently
rolling hills of Ireland. It is a calm spring night, and there
is a light mist in the air. You're following a winding road
through the grassy meadows when you hear a commo-
tion some distance off, and a faint light catches your eye.

Deciding to get a better look, you creep closer, leaving
the road behind. A few more paces and you come upon
an event the likes of which you've never seen before.

Dancing gaily around a large fire are creatures whose
majestic beauty takes your breath away. Slim, graceful
men leap and whirl in the intricate steps of jigs and
flings, the traditional dances of Ireland. Lithe, elegant
women whose beauty takes your breath away perform
the dances faster than the eye can follow, making it ap-
pear as easy as walking. Off to one side, a group of the
handsome beings plays lively music on flute, bagpipes,
and a simple round drum you've learned during your
stay is called a bodhran.

As if on cue, the music stops and all eyes turn to
you. The men and women are not at all shy about being
watched; in fact, they motion you to come forward and
join in the dance. Their voices are high and musical, and
as they come closer, you see the narrow faces with almond-
shaped eyes and the slim, pointed ears.

At this point, anyone from the Emerald Isle would be
advising you to run away as far and as fast as your legs
can carry you. For what you've stumbled upon is a mid-
night dance of the Sidhe, or elves.

Mind you these are not the small, winged faeries of
European folklore. The Sidhe are the keepers of the
faerie kingdom in Celtic folklore, mysterious, immortal,

I

I

10

Introduction

and gifted with powers both wonderful and terrible, de-
pending on how they choose to use them. Do one of
them a favor, and you may be rewarded with your
heart's delight. Cross them, however insignificantly, and
their revenge can be terrible to behold.

So think carefully before you step into that magic cir-
cle. You may pass a wonderful time dancing the evening
away, only to return to your lodging to find that one,
three, perhaps even seven years have passed in your ab-
sence. You may be bewitched into going with the Sidhe,
back to their magic kingdom, where time stands still and
the court of the elves reigns forever. No matter what
happens, it will be an experience you will never forget.

The stories collected in this book are many different
looks at the Sidhe, and how they might interact with our
mortal world. From a water-elf who grants a remarkable
ability to a poor fisherman and teaches him the meaning
of compassion in Josepha Sherman's "Netted" to an
intrigue-filled adventure in the elfin lands of Richard
Parks1 ''My Lord Teaser," the faerie folk have come
forth to put on a regal show like no other. So take that
fateful step into the faerie circle, if you dare.

And, as we asked you at the beginning of this intro-
duction, imagine. . . .

UNDER THE SKIN

by Michelle West

Michelle West's latest novel is The Broken Crown, the first
in the Sun Sword series. Other notable novels among her
fantasy works include the duology The Sacred Hunt, con-
sisting of the books Hunter's Oath and Hunter's Death. Her
extraordinary short fiction also appears in Tarot Fantastic,
Return of the Dinosaurs, Fantastic It, and Enchanted For-
ests, She lives in Ontario, Canada.

The rain that fell in the city was the color of her eyes,
clear and gray where it blanketed the traffic-strewn
streets with the persistence of its fall.

The river that ran between roads, set into a valley that
nestled between forked branches of highway, was swol-
len with April movement. She came out of that river,
like the first shoots of spring, into air redolent with the
speech of cars, strange and terrible and now, to her
alone, ordinary—as ordinary as rain, as snow, as the
movement of leaves in their season.

She had chosen her form, had slept in it, and now,
awakened, she tested the air. And then, at last, she
called forth a glimmer of power—power older than even
the valley in which she stood—and fashioned for herself
a seeming, a glamour, beneath which she might do her
work.

For in this diminished time, work was all that was left
her; she had no court, no politics, nothing but magic
stripped of place, of any context which was not hers.

Hard, to learn the ways of trees. She remembered her
youth, and their voices which were now so very muted.
Harder, to learn the ways of squirrels, bears, foxes, of
stags, for their speech traveled with them, died and was

11

12

Michelle West

born again, was perturbed in all things by the short
bursts of their life.

It was easy—she remembered it clearly—to learn the
speech of man. Easy to think that she understood it,
that creatures that barely lived longer than animals could
be understood.

Had she but known.

"Janie, come downstairs now and take the garbage
out! How many times do I have to tell you?"

About as many times, Jane thought, as she shut her
book and rolled off he bed, as you say everything else.
"I'm coming!"

"That's what you said fifteen minutes ago, young
lady!"

Jane Thornton was not a stupid girl, so she didn't
correct her mother. Instead, she swung the thin door
wide, ran out into the hall, pivoted on the banister and
practically sailed down the stairs, all in one continuous
motion that ended with the wall in the vestibule. Her
fingers left smudge marks.

Jane's mother was standing, arms folded, beside the
microwave in the kitchen. "I don't know what's gotten
into you lately," she said, as Jane lifted the two twist-
tied garbage bags. "AH you do anymore is sit up in your
room doing God knows what."

She mumbled a "Yes, mother" under her breath and
refused to meet her mother's eyes. They were dark,
those eyes, where they'd once been bright. Jane couldn't
remember the last time her mother had smiled, although
a cynical grimace was pretty commonplace these days.
Not much to be happy about, really.

It was probably her father's fault, and her father
was—damn him anyway—quite happy in his new life
with his lovely new wife and his bright new home. No
room there for either Jane or her mother, although he
called Jane regularly and had even sent an idiotic pink
sweater for her last birthday.

On the other hand, it was hard not to understand his
choice when her mother was like this. She dragged the
garbage to the can at the side of the house, and then,
after stuffing the two bags into the can, headed down to

UNDER THE SKIN

13

the curb with it. As she trudged back up the walk to the
house, it began to rain. Warm drops hit her upturned
face as she studied the roiling clouds above without the
slightest interest in shelter.

Rain.

Beneath  it, a stirring.  She finished  her work  and
waited, thinking it odd to have traveled this far.
She had no kin. And perhaps it was time, after all.

It wasn't that Jane didn't have friends; she had them.
It was just the only two that she'd ever really given a
damn about were now living in Arizona and Quebec.
They wrote, and she wrote; after her father left, she
wasn't allowed to make long distance calls anymore be-
cause it was too expensive. But it didn't matter. The
letters had become few and far between, and she knew
that Tracy and Corinne had gone on with their lives,
meeting new people and learning to fit into the new
places that had called them away.

Rain fell, unbroken; the air rumbled as if the skyscape
of cloud were the victim of a quake; white light illumi-
nated the sky above, and she tried to catch sight of the
heavens in the fading afterimage.

It was hard to believe that at some time in the early
1900s Arundel Avenue and the streets that surrounded
it were considered the very outskirts of the city. Now,
buried beneath the network of parkettes and parking
lots that paralleled the Danforth, the subway trains rum-
bled like living metal worms, and a mere fifteen minutes
took you right to the heart of the city.

The trees that lined the streets here towered over the
rooftops; they were huge old maples for the most part,
and they had always been huge and old. Their roots
were sunk well past people's basements, just as the
leaves were well above their bedrooms; they twisted and
broke old pipes as they grew, and every so often—in a
storm like this—they dropped the heavy burden of their
branches on the power lines.

Still, the city hadn't seen fit to cut them down or rid
the neighborhood of them, and Jane walked beneath

14

Michflle West

leaves which were lit on the underside by street lamps,
and above by lightning's occasional flashes.

Where do you go when you have nowhere to go?

Some people went to cafes, and some to dance clubs;
some to bars and some to parks, some to the islands in
the harbor and some to bookstores along the Danforth—
others with cars went to stretches of empty wilderness
where one could be alone by one's own choice and not
the choice of everyone else around you. Alone, rather
than lonely.

Jane Thornton had no car. She had a license—it was
fairly recent—but her dad had taken the car because her
mother lived close to a subway. And besides, really, her
mother didn't have money for anything that was com-
fort: alcohol, food.

The city had wild patches, but no wilderness, no
wildness.

Except in storms like this. Jane looked down and real-
ized that the streets were empty; even the headlights of
cars were gone. She closed her eyes and the rain hit her
face. Thunder roared, and she roared back; the roar held
no words, but then, words were not needed.

"Where were you?" Her mother's voice, slurred only
a little. Later in the evening, it would probably be
slurred a whole lot more—Jane gave it fifty-fifty. Her
friends wondered why she didn't drink. Well, they had;
she didn't see much of them now.

She didn't bother to answer the question, but her
mother didn't expect an answer by now; it wasn't so late
that she'd been worried. "Your father called."

"So?"

"So call him back or he'll blame me for not delivering

his message."

She mounted the stairs two at a time as the rain's
momentary clarity was destroyed by her life.

". . . anyway, Pat and I were wondering if you'd like
to come over for Sunday dinner this week."
"No."
"Janie, I haven't seen you in almost six months."

UNDER THE SKIN

15

"School's been keeping me busy."

"Which is why you're failing."

Mom told you that?

"My grades are none of your business," she said, bit-
ing back words, holding them in.

"You're still my daughter, Janie. Your grades are very
much my business. Especially if you aren't listening to
your mother." He fought the words back, too—his tem-
per and hers were not so different when they were
angry. But he was older, better at it. "Janie, we'd really
like to see you. I'd really like to see you."

She was angry at them both, and her anger was sud-
den, like the storm had been; the words in her throat
were a rumble, and then a roar. "Dad, you just don't
get it do you?" He didn't have the chance to reply. "I
don't come to dinner because I can't stand the sight of
Pat, or you for that matter."

"Janie, don't you—"

"Don't you tell me what to do! You lost that right
when you lied to us, cheated on us, and took off on us!"

"If your mother—"

"My mother doesn't have anything to do with this!
Do you think I'm too stupid to figure it out on my own?
Where do you get off telling me I'm selfish or I'm
spoiled? / didn't promise to love and honor Mom until
death do us part—you did!"

Silence, then. Her hands were shaking as she pressed
the receiver to her ear, to her lips. She was waiting for
his anger to flood back along the wires that bound them
together in this conversation.

But that wasn't what he offered her, smug bastard. He
never gave her what she needed. "Janie, try to under-
stand. Life with your mother wasn't ever very easy."

"And living with you was better?"

"No—probably not for her." His words were so calm
and so measured; she hated them.

"Is that you speaking, Dad—or is that the fancy thera-
pist you're seeing?"

Silence was better than patience, and he was silent for
another thirty seconds. She counted them. Then, "When
you fall in love for the first time, you'll understand it
better. You've never been in love, Janie."

16

Michelle West

"You mean I've never been in lust," she snapped
back. "And you're wrong. But at least I knew it for what
it was."

"That's enough, Janie. You've never been with any-
one that's as good for you, as good to you, as Pat is
to me."

"Is she? Is she really that good?"

She heard an intake of breath so sharp it made her
smile. But then he said, "I'm sorry that we can't talk
right now. I never meant to hurt either of you. I didn't
do this to hurt you—and I hope one day you'll under-
stand that. But I deserved that chance to be happy, and
I won't listen to you cut down my wife."

He hung up before she could.

What about us, you bastard? What about our
happiness?

She was strong, was Jane Thornton; she didn't even
start to cry.

There was a resonance about anger and grief that had
its own feel, stripped of words and expression and hu-
manity. In the valley she had chosen for her awakening,
she stirred, stood, lifted her chin. Testing something that
was not just air, but the scent of approach. Her own.

The sky's burden was shed by rain's work; sun cast a
shadow, long and thin into the straggly grasses. That
shadow was unmoving in a way that nothing but the
great metal bridge above her was. She waited, as if she
were not part of life, of the living.

The next morning, Jane cut school. School was a waste
of time, anyway. A bunch of teachers tried to "help"
you in your "difficult" situation. Jane wanted nothing
from them but to be left alone.

The only way to be left alone was not to be there. So
she walked the quiet streets, beneath the towering trees.
Followed them, stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk
because of the old childhood rhymes. She made a point
of hitting all the lines, though.

She even paused in front of her house, thought about
going in; her mother was at work at the office. No one

UNDER THE SKIN

17

would be there. She made it as far as the front door.
Turned the knob. Walked away.

Home was the last place she wanted to be.

I'd be Happy, she thought, if I never had to see this
place again.

Done, someone said, and she turned at once. A small
child, trying to escape the grip of his mother's hand for
an excursion into the sparse traffic, was the only thing
in sight that was talking.

Never mind. She shoved her hands into her pockets
and began to walk.

She made her way from Arundel to the Danforth, and
from the Danforth down Broadview and into the Don
Valley, following the bike paths beside the river that
nestled between the two sides of the highway. The trees
here were green, when they were alive, and the weeds
were colorful enough, but the river was a dead one, and
if there was animai life other than the dogs that people
walked, it hid very well.

As Jane maneuvered her way beneath the day branch
of a stunted tree, light caught her eye, flashing like re-
flected sun over rippling water. It came again as she
lifted her head, and she began to slowly wend her way
toward it, leaving behind the smooth asphalt of the
newly paved bike path. Only when she was halfway there
did Jane wonder what she was doing, but by then she
had no intention of going back until she found the
source of the light itself. She bet that it was probably
the window of some abandoned old wreck.

Good damned thing she didn't have two cents to rub
together. She lost.

The trees seemed to grow darker and rougher as she
approached the light; they were tightly packed and
harder to move around. There were thorny plants that
caught the hem of her pants—tearing it twice; there were
burrs that caught her hair, pulling at it rather than join-
ing it.

/ get it, I'm Prince Charming, and this is the forest
of thorns. She had no intention of kissing any sleeping
woman—wasn't as if she didn't get abused enough by
moronic idiots passing themselves off as human beings—

18	Michelle West

but she was damned if she was going to give up before
she managed to clear the trees.

And she forgot it all as she managed to peer between
the forked trunk of a gnarled old tree whose leaves she
wouldn't have recognized had she carried an encyclope-
dia with her. Because framed by the vee of that split
trunk was a woman who was shining with a hazy
luminescence.

Her hair was a spil! of silver that seemed to catch
particles of the sun and reflect them, wayward, back; her
eyes were wide and dark and perfect, and her lashes,
like her hair, were silver. She wore a sleeveless summer
dress that caught the breeze and defined its passage. Her
skin was white as ivory, and her arms were long and
slender; her fingers were smooth and perfect as she lifted
her hands in greeting.

"Welcome," she said. If lightning had a voice, this was
it; a flash of brilliance that lingered in the air long after
the actual light had passed.

Jane opened her mouth to speak, and nothing came
out—although if a toad or a frog had climbed out of her
lips, it wouldn't have surprised her much. Compared to
the silver-haired woman, Jane was everything ugly and
awkward.

"Come, Jane Thornton. You found me for a reason.
I am not a danger to you, nor you to me. Come."

Jane scraped her way through the fork of the tree and
landed with a clumsy thump on her knees. The woman
offered her a hand, and after a moment, Jane took it;
she looked down and saw her bleeding and scraped skin
against the perfect whiteness of light.

"W-who are you?"

"I am a companion, of sorts. Come, walk a while with
me in my forest."

Jane looked over her shoulder, seeing the highway
and the bridge that towered overhead.

The woman laughed, and her voice was the brook that
trickled in silence. "It has taken me many years to un-
derstand it, Jane—it is more difficult than I or my distant
kin realized it could be. But wilderness is more than
isolated forest, and a forest is more than trees." She
turned and started to walk and Jane began to amble

UNDER THE SKIN

19

awkwardly behind her, stubbing her toes and hurting her
knees when she fell. Finally, the woman stopped.

"You are Jane Thornton. I have been waiting, I think,
for you. It is our—my—way, to wait; to be sought rather
than to seek. I am hidden, always, to those who will not
look, who don't know how to look. They are many."
Her smile was distant for a moment, cool as the winter
white of her hair. Sun caught both.

"You are the first to find me in many years, and it
means what it means, Jane Thornton. You could not see
me if you did not seek a new life, a new beginning." She
held out a hand and pulled Jane up from the ground; her
hand was cool and strong. "You do not walk well here,
but this is only the first time that you've come. It will
get easier, I promise you that. Until then, let me aid
you." She reached into the swirling folds of her skirts
and from them pulled a glorious silver pelt. "You are
too large for this walk. Put this on. You will have to
remove your old clothing and set it aside."

What'tt get easier, Jane wanted to ask, her suspicion
struggling to assert control over the little-girl awe that
she knew she was in the grip of, but couldn't quite shake.
She even opened her mouth but the pelt seemed so per-
fectly made, so warm and so soft, that she reached for
it as if she had never wanted anything else in her life.
And as she picked it up, her hands and feet began to
tingle.

"It really is safe," the woman said, smiling.

So Jane put it over her head, matching the tip of her
nose with the tip of its nose; she touched the edge of its
forepaws with the tips of her fingers, and the edges of
its hind paws with the balls of her toes. The light in
front of her eyes blurred; she cried out in surprise; there
was no pain. And the woman smiled and knelt before
her. "Do you see what you've become?" She pulled a
silvered glass from the swirl of her skirts, just as she had
pulled the pelt.

Jane looked into it and saw the reflection of a beauti-
ful silver fox.

"You see?"

"Yes," Jane said—and found that her voice, too, was
changed. She fell silent immediately as she saw that the

20

Michelle West

mouth—with its white sharpness of teeth—that had
moved with the words she tried to speak were the fox's.

The woman rose, taking the reflection with her. Jane
thought her tall and fair—and stopped to wonder why
she, at a good foot taller than Jane herself, could navi-
gate dense branches and burrs without pause.

"I am," the woman said softly, her eyes on some dis-
tant spot, "alone, Jane. The last of my kind. I am under-
standing, slowly, yours. I ... miss my kin, Jane, but I
will not see them again until I face what mortals face.
And even then, I do not know—our lives are so differ-
ent. What happens when the mountains are worn away
by sand and sea in the course of time? Are they reborn
in their glory in any afterlife of mortal making? I think
not. I think perhaps it is merely truth that I will never
see them again.

"The fox," she said, turning to the young girl, "is a
form that I learned in my youth, but although I under-
stand it well, I do not often wear it." Her smile was
quiet. "It is a mortal form. The world is bounded by
mortal forms.

"For that reason, the pelt is yours to keep, Jane, if
you will but leave the life you so dislike now and explore
my world with me in the days and years to come. I have
much to teach you, and you have much to learn; you
are not happy as you are, and I—I have much to teach,
I think. Will you accept this?"

Why not? Jane thought. Any life had to be better than
the one she was living. "Where are you going?"

"As I said, to tour my forest. Come."

"But—but that leads to the city."

"Does it indeed?" The woman smiled. "Then you
must learn to see your city with the eyes J have lent
you."

It was still hard to look at the silver-haired woman,
but it was also hard to look away. Jane had never seen
anything so close to perfect—no, so perfect—in her life.
"Who are you?" Her voice was a tickle that came from
a tiny fox's chest as she walked slowly, getting use to
four light feet.

The woman smiled almost sadly. "I was called many

VNDER THE SKIN

21

things. There are stories that survive that still hold grains
of truth, although they change to fit their time and their
place, as 1 have done. I ruled, and I served, in my time;
I played my game of iron and steel, I stood in shadow
while the bells of man tolled; perhaps I even—" and
here, her smile was momentarily sly, "carried away their
children to realms that do not age them so." She turned
toward the east and stared at the sky as if she could see
beyond it. "But that was in a different land, and a differ-
ent time. They are gone now."

There was a quiet longing in the words that made
Jane's throat tighten. "Why—why are you here? I mean,
why didn't you stay?"

"We do not always have the choice," she replied
gravely. "I gave my word, long before your birth, to
travel the wise man's road. I have been learning about
human forests, about human people." She smiled. "But
I have also been searching the forests of the world for
others of my kind."

"Did you ever find them?" Jane asked, cocking her
head to one side.

"Come. Let us explore the wilds while we have the
time."

Jane thought there would be magic, but there wasn't;
there were houses and storefronts and cars and
pedestrians.

"Yes, there are those," the woman said softly, as if
she could hear every thought. "But there is magic as
well. You expect magic to feel a certain way, to look a
certain way, to taste a certain way. You expect light and
sound, a movement of mountains, some gout of fire. I'm
not sure why, but it is the way of your kind. Magic is
subtle, Jane, and it takes the context of the form it
touches. If you wish fire, you must be fire; if you wish
light, you must be light. If you wish the wildness, then
you must be the wildness; there is no magic that does
not take what is within and use it. Do you understand
this?" They walked toward the neighborhood that Jane
called home, and it was only once they arrived there
that Jane realized that she, and not the woman, was

22

Michelle West

leading. Show me, she thought. Where's the magic here,
besides you?

"You."

"But you gave me that."

"Did I? Very well. Do you see that house? That house
was planted in 1916."

''Houses aren't planted."

"Ah, but they are. And they grow as the people who
live in them grow, developing a sense for romance and
bereavement, for happiness and tragedy—for life. Your
house will remember you long after you've passed by
it." She began to walk toward Arundel, and Jane fol-
lowed, until they stood at the foot of her house.

"Look at this house," the woman said, and her tone
was completely different. "It is not a well-cared for
house at the moment. There is anger and loss and things
darker besides."

Jane said nothing.

"And there was no magic at all in it, no belief in
magic." She turned then, and looked at Jane with her
dark eyes, her light eyes. "Do you understand why you
found me, Jane?"

"No."

"Because for you there was no magic, and no life ex-
ists in the end without it."

"Most people live without magic," Jane replied, feel-
ing prickles up and down her spine.

"Do they?" She reached down and stroked the top of
Jane's head. "Jane, your father left your mother, and
you have nothing but pain and anger to give him for
it. Why?"

"Because he lied to us. And he hurt us."

"You are hurting him greatly."

"He deserves it."

"Why?"

"Because he lied! Because he cheated on my mother
for months before he told her, and because he—he mar-
ried my mother. He promised to love her forever."

"That," she said gravely, "is magic."

"What?"

"That belief. Your mother believed your father, and

UNDER THE SKIN

23

your father believed in himself. That was years ago, but
the house remembers."

"Well, if that was magic, then magic isn't worth shit."

"Let it go, Jane. Let it go, if it is worth so little."

Jane's snort came out a growl; it stopped her for a
moment. "He can't just get away with it," she said at
last.

"No, I suppose he can't. But think: If you will have
magic, then you must create it and understand what its
value is."

"I had no choice in anything either of them did."

The silver-haired woman did not answer, but instead
began to walk away.

"Where are you going?"

"Into your yard."

"Why?"

"Because your mother is there."

"What the hell—my mother is supposed to be at
work!" She hesitated at the gate, and the woman opened
it. "I don't want to see my mother."

"You may never see her again, Jane; you are being
born, and what you will be when you are finished, I
cannot say. Will you not at least say your good-byes in
some fashion? For your mother has hurt you, but she
has been hurt as well, and you will leave her just as your
father has done."

"/ didn't promise her anything."

"No. Of course not."

Jane didn't argue anymore. Instead, she almost
meekly crossed the line between the driveway and the
patio of the backyard. Her mother sat sprawled in a lawn
chair, a magazine over her face and a glass by her side.
It was full; not a bad sign. Jane leaped up on the table
just as a cat might, gathering her hind muscles and push-
ing hard against the ground as if she had done it all her
life. Then, on impulse, she knocked the glass over.

The magazine fell to the ground in a noisy spill of
glossy paper as her mother sat bolt upright. Jane had
never seen her mother's mouth open so wide with so
little noise coming out of it. The thought made her
laugh, but the sound that she made was like a tickle
across the air. And then she realized that her mother

24

Mickelle West

UNDER THE SKIN

25

was staring right at her, and she fell silent, returning her
mother's regard through a set of silver fox eyes.

"She can see me," she said, to the woman who stood
at her side.

"Yes. But she cannot hear you, alas. It has been a
long time." And then the woman did the strangest thing;
she walked up to Jane's mother and very gently touched
her cheek, the way someone might touch a sleeping in-
fant's. "She cannot see me. Remember what you can,
Maria. Remember."

But the Maria to whom the woman spoke didn't need
the reminder. She stared at the fox for a long time, and
then she began to cry. Jane had seen her mother cry
several times, but she had never seen tears like this—a
mixture of joy and loss that made her angry, cynical
mother seem, for a moment, vulnerable.

The older woman reached out and touched the fox's
whiskers. Her hands were shaking. "Did you come here
just to knock the glass over?" Whiskey dripped down
from the table to the cement, and spread into the cracks
between the stones- "Are you trying to tell me
something?"

Jane started to speak, but the woman gestured her
into silence. "Just listen, Jane."

"I should have listened to you years ago. Am I drunk
now? Are you real? Do you remember the last time 1
saw you?"

"What fast time?" Jane whispered,

"When she was a girl only a little older than you are,"
her companion replied.

"She saw me?"

The woman smiled. "She saw me." The smile dimmed.
"She had no magic in her life, and a great deal of
yearning. I came to her as a little fox for three winter
days."

"Then what happened?"

"Do you mean, what did I do next or what did she
do next?"

"I mean, why did you stop coming?"
"I?   Because   she   found   something   else   that   she
thought she could believe in; some other magic, and

some other miracle into which to put heart and hope
and effort."

"What?"

"Your father."

Jane growled, and her mother drew back, speaking in
low, soothing tones.

"It was winter. Don't you remember? I wanted proof
that magic existed — that life could get better than what
I had. I might've even prayed; I've forgotten. But you
came then. And you're here now." Her mother's tears
got worse.

"You judge your father harshly, little one. He, too,
sought magic and faith. But he could not build that with
your mother; they have hurt each other too much."

"And I'm just supposed to forgive him?"

"No; every magic has its price. He knew what that
price would be, and he must pay it, whether it hurts him
or no. Now come; stop standing in the whiskey and let
us continue our walk."

Jane looked at her mother. "Can I — can I come
home tonight?"

"You may do as you desire, Jane."

Jane went home after school and found her mother in
the kitchen on her knees. Her left hand was bandaged,
and her right was covered by a rubber glove; she was
scrubbing the floor clean.

"Hi, Mom," she said, awkward although she tried not
to be.

"Hi, Janie. I just — 1 dropped a couple of bottles when
I was cleaning the shelves."

"You okay?" Jane said, looking at her mother's hand.

"It's just a sliver. Are you home for dinner tonight?"

L

"In a couple of hours, then. Took me longer to clean
up the mess than I thought."

Jane went up to her room. And as she crossed the
threshold she heard whispers, felt the brush of old cotton
and then some stiffer fabric, against her hands. She felt
feathers beneath her cheek, and heard a man's voice
humming a lullaby. It was not her father's voice.

It was the house speaking.

26

Michelle West

She walked over to the bed—her bed—and lay down
stiffly against it, feeling her arms and legs as if they were '
far too heavy. And then she listened to the memories
of the house, sinking into them enough to almost see
her mother.

She'd never done this before. Had never thought to
do it, to question what a house might see, might be
touched by, might explain in its peculiar, observant way.
But now that she knew, she could hear voices that were
not her own, see images that were outside of her day-
dreams, her hopes, her fears.

Her mother hadn't dropped those bottles—she threw
them. And she'd taken them all out, for however long
it lasted. Emptied them, rinsed them out so they
wouldn't smell, shuffled them under the Pepsi cans in the
recycling bin where they might vanish without remark.
Except, of course, Janie took out the recycling boxes.
Sometimes her mother could be so stupid.

God, it was all so stupid. Her mother set eyes on a
little white fox—a stupid white fox—and suddenly she
was trying to do all this cleaning up that she'd never
have done for Jane or her father.

Don't be angry with her, a voice said. She does it be-
cause she remembers what its like to be a girl who can
dream. Whether she's strong enough to continue to dream
depends on her—but every time you mock her, you strip
away her strength. It was the silver-haired woman. But
come, Jane. Tonight you must leave if you are to continue
your journey with me. She beckoned, and Jane sat up.
The house was empty, the room darkened by sunfall.
She wanted to be angry at her mother.
She wanted to be angry.
"Janie! Dinner!"

Dinner was quiet. Jane was aware of her mother as if
for the first time; she was seeing beyond what she looked
like to what she was at the moment. It was strange. She
always feit stung if her mother laughed at her—but she'd
never realized that her mother could be hurt, too. It was
odd. She was almost afraid to say anything.

But her mother was quiet as well, very introspective.

UNDER THE SKIN

27

It was only when they were gathering up the dishes that
she spoke.

"Janie, I know that things have been pretty awful
around here lately. I'm sorry. But I was thinking today
that maybe I've been looking at things the wrong way.
I wasn't—I wasn't always easy to live with. I'm not—"

"You don't have to say this, Mom."

"I do have to say it." Her mother drank air, a heave
of chest and lung, a grasp for more than breath. "I'm
not easy to live with. I think—1 think my mother must've
been like me, when I was like you. I don't think you
deserve that, I don't deserve it myself. I'm going to do
better. I promise."

"I know you will, Mom," Jane said—and for just a
moment she allowed herself to believe it.

She came that night, and Janie followed her, sliding
out of her room and past her mother's door. On impulse
she stopped, peered in between the crack left between
open door and frame. Her mother was sleeping on her
side, curled around a pillow as if it were her father's
back.

She did hate her father, sort of, and that was good.
She turned away and crept down the stairs, like a thief
or worse. Like that father, meeting the woman of his
dreams.

"You are quiet, Jane."

Jane's silver whiskers bobbed in the field of her vision
as she shook her head. They traveled the crowded walks
of the still-trendy Queen West Village, avoiding the au-
thoritative steps of people who had places to be but no
time to get there.

"Do you not find the forest night interesting? There
are lights here, made by man, and they change con-
stantly over the years. I have always found these lights
fascinating for what they reveal and what they conceal.
There is a heart to them that is divided."

Jane Thornton said nothing.

"And here, there will be music, and it will be fine and
lively; there, there will be poverty, and around it, like
broken rivers, riches will pass without stopping."

28

Michelle West

"Panhandlers," Jane said.

"They have their own stories, Jane. They have a pa-
thos to them that can be both revolting and compelling."
The fox wrinkled its nose.
"Do you not like the gift you've been given?"
"Yes—I do. I like it."
"Do you not desire your freedom?"
"Yes."

"Was it not magic you sought?"

"Yes."
"Ah."

Her mother was up before her alarm went off. Jane
knew this because it wasn't the insistent sound of her
mother's droning alarm—ignored—that finally pulled
her out of bed; it was her mother's voice.

"Janie! Breakfast!"

She went downstairs in a state of shock. "Mom?"

"You aren't dressed yet."

"I'm not even awake," Jane said, and pinched her
arm theatrically.

Her mother laughed. "There's too much cholesterol
here," she sad apologetically. "But I thought—first
breakfast in a while."

Pancakes. Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Butter. Way too
much cholesterol.

Jane set the table while her mother finished cooking.
Set it for two, remembering when she'd last set it for
three in the morning. Then, her dad had done the cook-
ing, and it had been Sunday.

He was gone now. He was free.

She ate with her mother, and even helped her clean
up afterward.

What about magic, Jane thought, and school passed by
her in a blur of voices and actions and people.

Magic, the woman had said, was a thing that existed
in context. If you wanted fire, you had to be fire. If you
wanted lightning, you had to be a storm.

If you wanted freedom, did you have to be free?

And if you wanted love?

What the hell was magic, anyway?

UNDER THE SKIN

29

Night was dark, but the stars were out. The air was
hazy, so they weren't clear, but they were there, and
Jane could feel each one as if they were right beside
her. She sat on the porch, on an old lawn chair whose
plastic strips had almost all fallen off. Waiting.

"Jane."

She looked up to see the silver-haired woman. Her
hair, like rays of light, touched the porch railing, illumi-
nating everything. Making it beautiful. It almost hurt to
look at her.

"What are you doing?"

"Listening to the house," Jane said softly. "I can hear
my mother. I didn't know how young she was."

"And look how she turned out."

"That's not all her fault!"

The woman smiled gently. "No and yes. But come.
We have an agreement, I believe." She held out a per-
fect hand.

Jane reached for it and then let her own hand, calluses
and all, drop back to her dirt-stained knee. "I can't come
with you."

"No?"

"No. You know why."

"But isn't this what you wanted, Jane? Freedom? Did
you not say that you would be happy if you never saw
this house again?"

"Yeah, right. And if I leave, my mother forgets about
the stupid fox and remembers that everyone deserts her.
I bet she even thinks she deserves it. You said yourself
that everyone needs magic, and that magic is all
context."

She thought the woman would be angry, but the
woman only nodded her head. 'Yes. But what will your
magic be if you stay?"

"Mine? I don't know. You."

"Not me," she replied with a smile.

"Maybe my mother then. Maybe I can believe in her
and she can believe in her, and we can both hold on for
!ong enough that it'll be true."

"Then stay, Jane. But you will not see me again in
this life."

JL

30

Michelle West

"Yeah, I figured," Jane said, but her throat was tight.

"Let me leave you with a gift." And so saying, she
drew out of her robe the silver pelt that she had given
to Jane once before.

"But—but—I don't understand. Didn't you hear me?
I'm not going with you."

"Yes. You will not be able to wear it, Jane. You will
not be able to don it without my aid, and I will not be
here to grant that to you. Because you have made the
hardest decision, you've started a new life. You are not
the Jane Thornton that you were. I have enjoyed your
company, Jane, and I have learned a little from you.
Take the pelt, which is a thing of mortals, and when you
need to remember what you are capable of, look at it."

Jane's smile was strained. "You know what'll happen
if I try to put it up anywhere in the house, don't you?"

"No," the woman said gravely.

"My mother will think I've gone out and skinned
her dreams."

The woman did not laugh; Jane did.

And then she scooped up fur that no longer made her
hands and feet tingle, and turned away from the woman.
Because she was strong, Jane Thornton, and didn't need
to cry.

And then, because she was stronger, and didn't need
to hide, she turned and the woman was watching her, as
if tears were a salute, some gesture of greatness that
only Jane could grant.

She bowed, then, left, then.

This was the hardest thing to understand, and she
thought, in the dell of her choosing, that she could see
a glimmer of it every time someone made a choice like
Jane's—a choice of magic over freedom, a thing of grace
and beauty.

What, after all, was this humanity, but a huddled de-
sire for companionship, for love? Who had she loved in
her life as they loved in theirs, short and brief? She
thought, if she understood it truly, she might find her
mortality and lose her fear of it.

Could she but accept it, she knew that she might be
free. The mountains, she thought, and she turned toward
the east, and watched them as the sun rose.

NETTED

by Josepha Sherman

Josepha Sherman is a fantasy writer and folklorist whose
latest novels are the historical fantasies The Shattered Oath
and Forging the Runes. Her latest folklore book is entitled
Trickster Tales.

The door was jammed, trapping him in the close dark-
ness of his one-room home. Ethram, muttering a
curse, set his shoulder against the stubborn wood and
pushed with muscles made strong by years of hauling in
fishing nets. The door gradually creaked open enough to
let Ethram slip outside, glaring at the mound of sand
that had been blown up against that door. Half the
beach seemed to have been washed up here from the
shoreline by the waves.

No wonder. That had been a true monster of a storm
last night, strong enough to make him wonder, only half
in jest, if it hadn't been the result of a quarrel between
two angry wizards fighting over earth-power, sky-
strength, whatever they called the fabric of their magic.

"Who cares about their quarrels?" Ethram glowered
out at the still heavily overcast sky and the still-rough
waves—too rough for him to dare launch his boat. Every
day away from fishing was another day without the
chance for income.

He shrugged. What was, was. At least his boat, Eliss
II, was still safely berthed under its oilskins. Eliss I, no
longer seaworthy, hull-side up, as the roof of his house,
as was the style here on the Isles: a nice, sturdy roof the
old girl made, too, covered with sand from the storm
but undamaged. His nets, now—

"Damn. Oh, damn."

Bitterly, Ethram consigned every wizard and every

31

32

Josephs Sherman

magical squabble and most certainly every one of those
thrice-cursed magic-spawned storms to the darkest cor-
ner of Forever. He had stowed the nets away as carefully
as he had berthed his boat, well above high tide; every
fisherman on the Isles took such pains. But the storm
had been supernaturally savage enough to tear off the
oilskin covers, and his precious nets were strewn all over
the beach, with great, gaping holes torn in them by
spears of driftwood—ha, yes, look at that, one of the
nets was tangled about a whole man-sized chunk of stuff!
Now he would have to start the time-consuming, tedious
business of mending all those tears, yes, and miss still
more precious fishing days while—

Ethram stopped short. "Holy Selda. Sweet, holy
Selda."

That wasn't driftwood ensnaring his net. A man la-
tangled in its folds.

A ... being, anyhow, tall and slender, sleekly muscle
as any sea thing. His long hair was a deep, sea-blue, h,-
skin (and there was a good deal of skin to be seen sine
all the fellow was wearing was the net) a pale blue-white.
His ears . . . were most definitely pointed.

Ethram blinked, shook his head. Old Meggett, back
in the village, had always vowed he'd go mad from soli-
tude some day, and maybe now—

Fish guts. He liked living alone, and that didn't make
him crazy. And the man, being, whatever, was still here,
undeniably blue of hair and skin and pointed ears.

And red of blood. Ethram's breath caught in his
throat as he saw how a ragged gash marred the sleekness
of an arm, another wound slashed its way across the
deep chest. The man must have been trapped in the
storm and battered by the sea against the rocks. After
an uneasy moment, Ethram squatted by his side and put
a tentative hand on the pale blue wrist, wondering if
someone so blatantly alien even had a pulse.

He had, faint beneath the chilly skin, but steady. He
seemed to be breathing air easily enough, and Ethram
found no sign of gills on his neck, but those long-fin-
gered hands and toes were webbed, and the pointed
ears, seen this close, looked flexible as cloth, as though
they could be tightly furled to keep out water.

NETTED

33

"A sea-elf," Ethram realized with a sudden shock.
"By all the gods, he's a sea-elf right out of the stories."
Had to be. Nothing else could be so perfectly suited to
the sea yet be breathing on land.

Going to be a dead sea-elf if something wasn't done
to help him.

Like what? Ethram glanced fiercely about, as though
he might actually see something more than sea and sand
and the upturned ship-curve of his roof. It seemed fool-
ish to bring someone surely used to the cold sea into a
warm house, and something deep within Ethram was
screaming, No, alien, he's alien. But one of the unspoken
rules of everyone who fished the Isles was that you
didn't deny help to anyone in need, just in case next
time it was you in need.

So be it. Ethram shouldered the elf—heavier than he
looked, that one, dense with swimming muscles—reso-
lutely trying not to shiver at the touch of that too-cool
skin, and started back.

Ethram was sitting hunched over by the smoky light
of his oil lamp, muttering over his net-mending, when a
sudden stillness in the air told him his patient was
awake. Heart suddenly racing, he folded the half-
mended mass of net, returned the precious bone needle
to its case, then looked with forced calm across at the
bed.

Eyes dark as the sea at midnight looked back at him,
regal as those of any prince, unblinking as the stare of
a cat. A noble, Ethram thought, he has to be a noble of
his people, or maybe even a ruler. Or maybe all sea-elves
looked so proud.

The silence was growing heavy. Ethram asked,
"You ... uh ... speak the human tongue?"

The faintest frown creased the sea-elf s elegant brow.
He started to raise an arm, then stopped with a hiss of
pain as Ethram added hastily, "Don't move! I sewed
you up as best I could, same needles as I use on my
nets, the good needles."

Damn, he was babbling like an idiot. And all the
while, the sea-elf was watching him with inhumanly
steady stare. Like a sea-beast watching its prey.

r

34

Josepha Sherman

No, Ethram realized with a sudden, unexpected stab
of sympathy, like someone trying desperately to hide
fear and make sense of the alien place into which he'd
been thrown. Ethram watched one long, webbed-fingered
hand stroke across the rough woolen blanket as though
puzzling over its weave. Then he heard the sea-elf mur-
muring something that sounded more like the whisper
of the sea than actual words. Sea-magic, he thought, un-
easiness prickling up his spine, sea-magic or whatever
they called it.

The sea-elf stopped. "You . . . can . . . understand
now?" he asked.

"Y-you magicked the language, didn't you?"

"Not well. I ... have not enough of ... of the feel
of it. You, human . . . you are , . . ?"

'No one to harm you." Ethram wasn't about to give
any elf his name. "A fisherman, that's all."

But the steady blue gaze suddenly shifted to the flick-
ering little flame of the oil lamp. "That. What is that?"

"What?" Ethram echoed. "The lamp—the flame? You
don't know fire?" Ah, no, he wouldn't, would he? No   •
fire in the sea. "That's what we humans use to help us
see in the dark. And keep us warm. And cook our
food."

The sea-elf was clearly struggling to keep awake. (
Ethram sighed and picked up his half-mended net.
"Enough talking. Get some sleep." Mm, that rip was '.
mended. "And don't worry, you're safe." He drew his ;
knife to cut off the loose end of cord, and straightened in :
surprise at the sea-elf's sudden gasp. "Now what—ah."

Iron. The sea-elf was clearly terrified of iron, and too    \
weary to hide that fear. Ethram deliberately sheathed
the knife, and repeated, "Don't worry, you're safe.
After a thoughtful moment, he added a firm, "My won;
on it," and saw relief flicker in the deep blue eyes.

Eyes that quickly glazed as the sea-elf sank into ex-
hausted sleep.

Weird, having someone sharing his home. Weirder to
have that someone be a being who just would not see
the point of clothing or cooked food yet retained an
eerie grace and elegance even when he was gnawing on

NETTED

35

dried fish. Outside Ethram's house, the weather re-
mained alarmingly unsettled. Inside, the days passed qui-
etly as he continued to mend his nets and tend his alien
patient, who was swiftly picking up the human tongue.

Not that there was much they could discus, other than
the obvious matters: no, being out of the sea so long
wasn't hurting the elf; yes, the wounded of his people
did stay out of the sea till they healed to keep the smell
of blood from attracting predators. Yes, Ethram and his
guest exchanged names; Ethram couldn't see a way
around that. The sea-elf s name turned out to be Sishalah-
elek, and apparently (if Ethram understood him cor-
rectly) "elek" meant that his guest really was of the
nobility.

Difficult to talk about much else, though. How did
you get across the idea of villages and selling fish to
someone who was having just as much difficulty trying
to get across the thought of—what were they? Cities?
Cities that didn't have any solid walls or roofs? And
nobody sold fish in Sishalah's world, apparently, not in
that strange watery place where everyone used the sea's
own magic to summon food to them.

Sea-magic.

A sudden sly thought stole into Ethram's mind as he
mended his nets and mended his nets and meanwhile
watched his store of dried fish grow perilously low. What
if . . . ? What if . . . ?

No. He had given his word. Nonhuman or no, this odd
guest was safe here.

/ wouldn't hurt him. Just. . . well. . . detain him.

It still seemed wrong to even be thinking such things,
guilty-wrong. Maybe they weren't really friends, not two
such different types of folk, but they had been sort of
comrades these past few days, and there was host-honor
to consider, and . . . and . . .

Hell, I don't have to worry about it, not yet. He's still
too weak to go anywhere.

But Sishalah was healing with inhuman speed, yet had
begun looking strangely worn. He needed the sea, no
doubt about it. "I am healed,'1 the sea-elf said without
warning. "My thanks to you, but now I must go home."

36

Josepha Sherman

He got smoothly to his feet. Now, Ethram thought
and, heart racing, jumped to block Sishalah's way.

The sea-elf stopped in surprise. "What?"

"Sorry. But . . ." Ethram whirled, sinking his knife,
his iron knife, deeply into the door, hearing Sishalah's
startled gasp. "Can't let you go."

The blue eyes narrowed. "Why not? Why betray me
now?"

"I'm not betraying you, honest," Ethram said, hearing
his voice come out too loud. "It's just . . . well . . . you
have magic, and I don't. And I need something."

"What?"

"Look you, there hasn't been a calm day the whole
week you've been here. And even if I could have taken
out the boat, I haven't got more than one whole net yet,
so I couldn't even do any real fishing. But now the
weather's finally settled."

"What does that mean to me?"

"Not much. Except you've been eating my stores all
the while—not that I'm begrudging you that, understand,
you had to eat and so did I. But I haven't got much
food left. Today I can take the boat out. And you can
help me."

"I am not a slave."

"Well, no, but you're not free, either, not with the
iron barring the door. And you're not going anywhere
until you help me."

Sishalah's face could have been carved from pale blue
stone. "Is this human honor?"

"This is human need. Look, I'm not asking much, just
one little spell."

"Are you? What?"

Guilt was flooding him, pounding in his ears. Forget-
ting all his carefully rehearsed words, Ethram gasped
out, "My nets. Give me a net that isn't going to tear."

One thin blue brow raised skeptically. "And is that
what you truly want?"

He was missing something. But Ethram was so eager
to get the whole business done that he snapped, "Damn
right. A net that won't tear, so I can get some fishing
done."

The sea-elf sighed. Bending over a net, he murmured

NETTED

37

strange, sea-whispery words, eyes half-closed, then
straightened. "It is done. The net will not tear, not even
at the touch of your ugly iron. Now let me go. Or are
you planning to keep me as a pet?"

"Don't be stupid." Ethram pulled the knife free and
stood aside to let Sishalah pass, then stood in the door-
way, watching. Without a backward look, the sea-elf
leaped into the waves and vanished. More shaken than
he ever would have admitted, Ethram forced a casual
shrug and went to launch his boat.

He caught nothing that day, nothing the next. Won-
dering if the sea-elf could have put a curse on him,
Ethram set out on the morning of the third day, shiv-
ering in the chilly air, ignoring the warning the rising
wind was giving him. There wasn't a curse, dammit, and
he would prove it, hurl his unbreakable net overboard
and—

Somehow his foot had gotten tangled in the folds. Be-
fore Ethram could cry out, he was overboard, cold water
in his eyes, his ears. He fought to swim, to catch hold
of the gunwale of his boat, but the net was waterlogged,
the weights woven into it pulling him down.

Taking a frantic breath, Ethram dove, trying to untan-
gle his leg. No good. He was snared fast. He struggled
back to the surface, gasping in a lungful of air, then dove
again, knife drawn, hacking at the net—

The unbreakable net. The net that could not be cut
even by iron. And it was damned cold in the water, too
cold. The knife slipped from his hand, and he couldn't
find the strength to fight back to the surface, to the
air ... he couldn't . . .

A strong arm was suddenly about his waist, pulling
him to the surface. Ethram choked, gasped, drew in won-
derful air, and only then could turn his head to see who
held him:

"Sishalah." It was a croak.

"Sishalah," the sea-elf agreed. "Hold fast to your
boat."

As Ethram clung, Sishalah dove. Ethram was too
numb to feel much, save that a sudden weight was gone
from him; the sea-elf had freed him from the net.

38

Josepha Sherman

Sishalah surfaced. "Come, into your boat."

He heaved, inhuman strength in him. Ethram col-
lapsed into the boat, convulsively pulling sailcloth abut
himself for warmth, gasping out, "Why? Why?"

Sishalah, clearly undisturbed by the cold for all his
nakedness, leaned lightly on the gunwale. "Why what?
Why save you? It pleased me. How did you enjoy your
gift, Ethram? Was it not exactly what you wished?"

"It nearly killed me!"

"And you nearly enslaved me. I would have given you
a better gift," the sea-elf said, almost gently. "Had you
not betrayed me, I would have taught you how to call
the fish to you. Think of that, human. You would never
have known hunger. But now I give you the finest of
gifts. I give you back your life. Use it well."

With that, Sishalah dove back into the sea and was
gone.

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

by Rosemary Edghitt

Rosemary Edghill is the author of The Sword of Maiden's
Tears, The Cup of Morning Shadows, and The Cloak of
Night and Daggers. Her short fiction has appeared in Return
to Avalon, Chicks in Chainmail, and Tarot Fantastic. She is
a full-time author who lives in Poughkeepste.

April 30, 1800: County Berwick, Scotland
With a stifled sigh, Jonet Ellen Bellamy let the
worn curtain drop back into place over the library win-
dow. It wasn't fair. The gowns had been paid for by
Carterhall rents, but the Mistress of Carterhall couldn't
go to the ball.

At least her stepmama and her two stepsisters were
gone—and not to be expected back before dawn's light,
as was the way of country balls. She should make the
most of her solitude.

The library was dark, lit only by the grudging fire that
burned to keep the rot from the books. Jonet's father
had begun the practice when he had come to Carterhall
as librarian to his distant cousin the Earl of Greenlaw,
and it was one standing order that his cousin's widow
hadn't overturned.

Jonet's eyes stung, even though Papa had been in his
grave these six months. She missed him—and the com-
fort of their life together. She even missed Mungo Bel-
lamy, the old Earl. They had been happy before old
Mungo died and the Edinburgh lawyers found that it
was Ninian Bellamy, Jonet's father, who was heir to Car-
terhall, the Greenlaw Earldom, and the fortune accumu-
lated by a lifetime's cheeseparing. Before Mrs.
Heddersfield had come as Jonet's governess—and then,
unaccountably, had married Papa. Jonet began to sigh

39

40

Rosemary Edghill

again, stopped herself, and picked up her book: a French
volume of contes de fees that Stepmama would consider
far too worldly for an innocent young girl.

If only Papa had not died! But he had, and now—
under Scots law—Jonet was Countess of Greenlaw and
mistress of Carterhall in her own right, a fact that roused
her stepmama's not inconsiderable ire. But Jonet, as
Avice Heddersfie Id-Bellamy never tired of reminding
her, was not yet seventeen, a minor child, in the care of
those older and wiser.

And not let to go the ball.

Oh, she knew it would be tedious—the few country
dances she had stood up at before Papa died had taught
her that. But tonight would be special: a grand entertain-
ment given by the most interesting arrival in the County
in the last seven years.

"Auberon Ste. Vertdubois, Prince de la Cockaigne!"

"I know my own name," the big man growled. "And
my titles, too. Is there something else, Maitane?"

"Milord looks very elegant tonight," the valet ob-
served cautiously.

"Milord had better. Milord is getting himself
betrothed."

The valet tittered, and covered his painted mouth with
gilded nails. "And only one thing mars Milord's
perfection."

"No."

"But if Milord would just—"

"Milord, having been recently in England, chooses to
follow ie mode Anglais. And Milord is supposed to be
at the very tip of fashion, is Milord not, Maitane?"

"French fashion!" Maitane protested.

"Oh, no," Auberon said softly. "Never that. French
fashion, my child, is a red cap signifying the liberty to
murder. We will not follow French fashion."

Maitane, not certain what to make of his master's fey
mood, stood silent.

"Besides," Auberon went on, "only think how ap-
palled my douce countrymen will be to see me playing
the English—as if we had not been marrying English for
hundreds of years."

THE PHAERtE BRIDE

41

"She is Scots," offered Maitane timidly. "This Count-
ess. A Scots widow."

"It doesn't matter." Auberon turned from the mirror
and indicated that he was ready to receive his coat. "So
she has been widowed twice. I have been widowed a
hundred times."

Avice Bellamy unlaced the coach curtains, braving the
April chill, and put her face out the window to regard
Broceliande House as they approached. Four months
ago Prince de la Cockaigne had descended upon the
small Scots village of Miching Malicho, made extensive
repairs to the largest available house in the neighbor-
hood, and taken a hundred-year lease. By Equinox it
was known that the Prince was seeking a bride. By Eas-
ter it was known upon whom his choice had fallen. To-
night the County would be confirmed in its suspicions,
and anyone who had not yet seen Broceliande House
would see it.

The Prince would propose tonight. He would—he
must—the whole County was expecting the announce-
ment, and it was Avice's only hope of continuing to keep
her accustomed style once that chit of Ninian's came
into her estate.

The coach door swung open in a blaze of light and
fire-warmed air. Avice and her two daughters stepped
down between two lines of torches and entered Broceli-
ande House.

Curtains of blood-red velvet were drawn back to re-
veal windowpanes like a mosaic of black ice. Beeswax
candles, dyed and perfumed, blazed out across the ex-
panse of gilded and painted Chinese paper that covered
what few walls the ballroom windows did not. Music
filled the air from the velvet-draped dais where the
Prince's own private orchestra bowed and blew like
maddened automatons—and for those who did not
dance, there were side rooms where cards, or punch, or
even more hectic pleasures could be procured.

Auberon was bored.

He gazed out the glass at the far-off sparks of flame

Rosemary Edghill

on the hilltops and wished he were anywhere but here.
But it was a seven-year. Auberon had a bride to choose.

Half-hidden in velvet, Auberon watched as his guests
appeared in the entryway to the ballroom. The familiar
form of the Dowager Countess of Greenlaw appeared
in the archway. Her two daughters—whom a charitable
observer would call mouselike—hovered behind her.
Auberon, who was not charitable, thought that they
more closely resembled shrews.

His bride. His stepdaughters-to-be. He wondered if he
could marry them each in turn. With a sigh, the Prince
de la Cockaigne moved forward to do his duty.

Avice hesitated on the steps as her intended moved
toward her.

"My very dear Countess," Auberon rumbled deep in
his chest. He made a leg. The Misses Heddersfield
giggled.

The Prince de La Cockaigne stood six-foot-six in his
stocking feet and tipped the scales at nineteen stone.
When he took Avice's hand in his, it was swallowed up
completely, and the band of the massive gold signet ring
he wore clicked against her gold-and-jet mourning
bracelets.

"I trust I find you well, dear Countess?" Auberon
went on. "It was very brave of you to venture to attend
such a grand crush so soon after your tragedy. We must
make it worth your while. And here are your dear
daughters," he announced firmly, as though the matter
might be in dispute. "How lovely you both look."

Under their mother's raptor gaze Grizel and Elspeth
made their curtsies to the Prince, and the little party
moved down the stairs into the ballroom.

"But come, my dear Countess," Auberon continued
relentlessly. "I am certain my cousin will chaperon your
daughters, and I hope you will honor me with a pri-
vate word."

Avice looked at the fast and painted woman Auberon
named as his cousin. This was what she had waited for,
but now Avice was strangely reluctant to go with him.
Still, she put her gloved hand in his bare one and al-
lowed herself to be borne away.

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

43

Auberon led the Dowager Countess through a gilded
door and down a hallway into a room lined with books.
A single white wax candle burned in an ornate silver
holder in the shape of a salamander. Beside it was a
squat decanter of blue glass.

Auberon closed the door firmly behind her.

"Marry me-" ne said flatly. "It is my most earnest
desire."

As he spoke a great weariness came over him. Once
again the charade was to be played.

"Your Highness—this is an unlooked-for honor,"
Avice fluted. Greed shone in her eyes with an almost
perceptible light, and Auberon felt a pang of revulsion.
"I hardly know how to answer you." She held out her
hand to him.

Say "no." Auberon bent over the hand and kissed it.
"Say you will make me the happiest of creatures." Hon-
esty was ever my curse. "Be mine." Until I forfeit you in
exchange for my life.

"Oh, Your—Auberon," Avice breathed, with a fervor
usually found in country theatricals. "You have won me.
I am yours."

"Then we will wed on Midsummer's Eve. I beg you
will not think me too impetuous, but my ardor for our
union is such that I can barely restrain myself even
now."

An unbiased observer would have said that what the
Prince de la Cockaigne could barely restrain himself
from was hibernation—still, the Dowager Countess of
Greenlaw did not seem to mind.

"Oh, my Lord," she gushed inaccurately.

"Then accept this ring as a symbol of my love, and
we will drink a toast to our engagement. Dear Countess,
I beg you will let me make the whole world a party to
our joy." Auberon rattled the words off as if he were
reading from a promptbook. As he spoke, he rummaged
in his coat pocket and produced a ring.

The ring was made of iron; the surface was so dull
that it was hard to make out the true shape of the band
and the style of the engraving on its surface. The gem it
held was a perfect sphere of bright crystal, clear as dew.

44

Rosemary Edghill

Avice drew back, greed momentarily balked by
unease.

"Perhaps some wine first," Auberon said quickly,
dropping the ring back into his pocket. He turned to the
side table for two of the blue glass cups that went with
the decanter.

Avice looked up, her gaze automatically following his
motion. He stood in the corner of the room; she could
see him mirrored in the uncurtained windows—

But what she saw was not human.

The reflection in the glass was taller even than the
prince—black and hideous, with a curly coat and ram's
horns, with hoofed feet and taloned hands and a long
tufted tail like a lion's.

Avice made a faint mew of distress. The Prince looked
up. He caught the doubled movement out of the corner
of his eye and turned to confront his reflection.

"Careless of me," he said, but not as if it mattered.

The black beast in the glass clashed its fangs in time
with his words. Its eyes glowed red and gold as the bra-
zen hinges of hell, and two great horns curled backward
from his swept and furrowed brow. Auberon touched
the glass. Fingertip met talon.

Avice moaned and sank to the floor.

"But my dear bride," Auberon said genially, "what-
ever is the matter?"

He poured the wine and held it out to her. She did
not take it, and he set the cup down beside the decanter.

"You are mine, you know. But do not fear, my blush-
ing bride—you are already promised to another."

"Who— What—"

Auberon smiled coldly. "I told you nothing but the
truth: I am a prince, driven from his ancestral holdings
by the accursed sans-culottes. But the principality I am
lord of is Elphame, and to remain in human lands I must
pay the teind to Hell every seven years with the mortal
bride I wed."

The Dowager regarded him in terror. "I won't
marry you."

"Then live as long as you may. You mortgaged Car-
terhall to me—which was not legal, but you've been paid

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

45

for it in good phaerie gold. Cheat me now and you'll
swing for coining from a silken rope."

He watched her face blanch until the powder stood
on it like dirty sand.

"Mercy," she croaked. "Please—"

"Alas," Auberon said. "The Fair Folk have no
hearts—having none, I can hardly be merciful, can I?
But I will strike one more bargain with you, Countess:
Give me one of your daughters to die in your place
and you will go free—and keep all the rich gifts 1 have
given you."

She won't do it. She would refuse him, Auberon was
certain. The bride must be willing, and she would not be,
and it was too late for him to choose and court another.

It would be over. He felt relief well up in him and
turned away.

"Give you—one of my daughters—and I may go?"
Avice said hoarsely.

"Yes." She would not do it. She loved that brace of
weasels with all the passion in her withered heart. She
would never—

"Very well. One of my daughters—for your bride."
the Dowager's voice was crone-harsh.

"Done." Auberon closed the bargain as he must.
"Shall we make the announcement?"

"No. I need—I need a little time." And to his amaze-
ment, the Phaerie Lord heard the Countess begin to
laugh.

Lying in her cold and narrow nursery bed, Jonet Ellen
dreamed that she stood looking down at a ballroom. The
black and white of the floor changed and swirled, and a
man with eyes like amber and honeyed fire came up the
steps toward her. She moved toward him and found she
wore black silk and silver gauze the color of tears. . . .

He took her in his arms; they danced. She was happy
as she had never been before, and he looked only at
her. Then her hand was in his; a black ring burned cold
witchfire on her hand and everyone was laughing, cheer-
ing; a cup was pressed into her hand—

He curled her fingers about it and raised it to her lips.
She drank, and the world spilled slowly away in a jew-

46

Rosemary Edghill

eled dream where Jonet rode upon winged lions and
danced with star-crowned bears. . . .
And then she woke up.

The pale May sunlight was harsh through her swollen
lids. She rolled over to hide her face from the light only
to encounter, not the thin wool of the nursery mattress,
but the billowing softness of an eiderdown that nearly
smothered her.

"Lady—Lady—Lady—" The soft anxious voice
roused Jonet to troubles other than her own. With an
effort rapidly turning to panic she floundered upright in
the alien bed.

The speaker had the indefinable look of a lady's maid.
The servant's perfect elfin face belonged to no one Jonet
recognized. Jonet struggled to make sense of what she
saw, but for a frightening moment her mind would not
obey her.

"I am Jonet Bellamy," she finally said. "Where am I?"

"Only wait, lady, I will bring tea, Lady. Do not grieve,
Lady. Be well, Lady." Still offering advice in that whis-
pering unbroken stream, the servant hurried off, leaving
Jonet alone in the room.

Jonet threw back the covers. Even her nightshirt was
not her own. She slid from the bed to stand on pale blue
French carpets, woven with ribbons and roses—

—that coiled and spun like the chiaroscuro inlay of a
midnight ballroom floor.

Suddenly dizzy, Jonet sat back down on the bed.

"Lady, Lady, oh, do not get up, Lady, please, Lady—"

The maid had returned, carrying a broad silver tray
that flashed painfully as the morning light caught it.

"Here, Lady, you will sit, Lady, you will drink, Lady,
all will be well—"

"Who are you?" Jonet's voice cut through the patter
sharply.

"I am Perry, Lady, I will serve you Lady, only drink,
Lady, please—"

Mostly to gain silence, Jonet took the delicate china
cup. It held, not tea, but bitter black chocolate. She
drank it down and—after an uncertain moment—felt al-
together better.

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

47

"Now, Perry. Where is this?"

The abigail seemed to be reassured by Jonet's brisk-
ness. "Here is Broceliande, Lady, which is your home."

"Broceliande!" A jangle of dream-images spilled into
Jonet's waking mind—a man in a green coat, a ball—

And a ring. Jonet looked down and stared at the ring
on her hand. The crystal blazed with morning sun. If
that was here, her dream was no dream—it was true.

In a faint voice Jonet said: "I do no wish to seem
intolerably missish, but will someone please tell me what
is going on?"

"You are to be married. To me. In seven weeks'
time."

Jonet stared at the Prince de la Cockaigne blankly.
When Perry finally told her that His Highness wished to
see her, Jonet had been more relieved than frightened,
hoping that His Highness had answers to the questions
that tormented her.

He did. But not any she wanted.

"Married? To you?" She knew she ought to sound
calm. Forceful. But instead her voice squeaked and
shook. This was utter insanity—even if he was French.
And handsome. And rich, her mind added, cataloging
the things that Grizel and Elspeth would deem necessary
in a husband.

But Jonet thought kindness more important, and had
seen none—nor sanity, which nearly every bride would
account of paramount importance in a groom.

"Married. To me. We announced it at the ball last
night, though you may not remember. This Sunday the
banns will be read out for the first time—and on Mid-
summer's Eve we will marry."

His Highness spoke as if there could be no possible
doubt of this, Jonet trembled inwardly. Though all the
tales of the Prince had mentioned his great size, none
of them had mentioned how very small a rather small
person could be made to feel when the Prince de la
Cockaigne was standing over them.

"And what if I do not wish to marry you?" Jonet
asked at last.

"You have been promised," the Prince said flatly.

48

Rosemary Edghttl

"But / have not promised!" Jonet said indignantly.
She turned the peculiar ring—obviously a betrothal
ring—round and round on her finger. "And I won't
promise! I don't love you—I don't even know you!"

"Then learn to love me," the Prince said. "You have
seven weeks."

The last time Jonet had seen Broceliane House—six
months before—one tower had been burned entirely and
the other unable to boast a single unbroken window or
shutter. Now both were miraculously whole. How could
His Highness have accomplished all this in only six
months? Less than that: The lease had been signed on
Twelfth Night, and today was only May fifteenth.

Today the banns had been read out in church for the
first time—a legal necessity even though His Highness
was of the Old Religion—and the Right Reverend Ish-
mael Goodbook had announced from the pulpit for all
the village to hear the sworn intention of Jonet Ellen
Bellamy, the Countess of Greenlaw, and Auberon Ste.
Vertdubois, the Prince de la Cockaigne, to wed.

It was intolerable.

Jonet rested her forehead against the cool glass of the
tower window and twirled her betrothal ring round and
round her finger. Before her the lawns swept velvet-
green down to the stand of scrub pine that marked the
commencement of Carterhall land. Soon the roses in the
formal gardens below her would be in bloom.

And she would be married.

It did her no good at ali to protest—as she had at
the morning's service—and say she had been kidnapped,
ravished away, drugged and betrothed against her will.
Her stepmother swore it was a love-match that she had
known of for weeks, and his vile and disobliging high-
ness, Auberon Ste. Vertdubois, Prince de la Cockaigne
and master of Broceliande, said the same.

But why would a man of such wealth and position
want her at all?

"Why?" she muttered to herself. "It makes no sense."

"Why not? Surely you are not one of those who ex-
pect meaning out of life? The war news from the Conti-
nent should preclude that, surely."

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

49

Jonet turned. The Prince de la Cockainge stood in the
doorway, correct and civilized from his linen neckcloth
to the tips of his slippered toes, not omitting every brass
button and golden ring between. It gave Jonet the pas-
sionate urge to throttle him.

"Why do you want to marry me?" Jonet burst out.

"It is my nature—and beyond my control," Auberon
said austerely.

"I cannot believe that. Man is a creature of reason—
and a rich man—"

"A creature of license? Now, Countess Prettyheart,
would you have me believe that? I am rich in all the
world's goods—would you have me behave as a raven-
ing beast?"

Jonet threw back. "I am Jonet Bellamy, the Countess
of Greenlaw, and I do not wish you to behave as any-
thing at all, save as a man who will answer my questions.
You hold me prisoner in the expectation of our mar-
riage, and it makes no sense. Carterhall is well enough,
but it is not half so grand as this—" Jonet said
desperately.

"And all this will be yours the moment the marriage
ring is on your finger. You will have wealth beyond
counting. Is that not enough recompense to marry such
a fellow as I?"

"No," said Jonet baldly.

Auberon seemed momentarily nonplussed.

"Then what would you, if not wealth? I tell you
plainly, Prettyheart, if you will not have me, do not ex-
pect to return to such queenly state as that black-
swaddled mushroom and her brace of ferrets have al-
lowed you. Money is involved, Prettyheart, and gold is
often dearer than blood."

This last speech puzzled Jonet completely. Auberon
laughed, seeing her face.

"But come—let us cry truce. I will not let you go; no
more will the darling Dowager Countess of Greenlaw
take you back while she can use your inheritance as her
own. This is the truth; I speak no other."

"And so you think I will stand up with you and be
your bride—and I tell you, I would rather scrub pots at
The Horn and Wheel!"

r

50	Rosemary Edghill

"Well," His Highness de la Coakaigne said with due
consideration, "perhaps you would. Very well, my heart,
deny me if you will. But I shall not stop asking."
Abruptly he swept up her hand and kissed it.

Her bare skin burned against his palm like that of a
martyr roasting in the flames of hell, and the touch of
his lips was ice and molten gold.

"Pat and practiced," Jonet gasped, snatching her hand
away. Auberon smiled and bowed again.

Jonet Bellamy stood at the drawing-room window.
The Prince walked with her in the garden every evening
at sunset, but this was an evening like no other. Today
was Midsummer's Day—and tomorrow they would be
wed.

It had become a game, these last few weeks. Each
evening he would offer Jonet some new inducement to
wed him; each evening she would spurn it. But Jonet
had known long since that it was only a game. Tonight
when he asked she would answer him true.

Seven weeks, he had said. And seven weeks it had
been. She would give her consent. Tomorrow they would
be wed.

And afterward—

She had not asked him about afterward. But if the
Prince loved her as she loved him, all the world's events
would be beside that fact.

She heard the door open and turned toward it.

She would refuse him. The Prince de la Cockaigne,
serene in that happy certainty, had proceeded this Mid-
summer's Eve to drive Monsieur Maitane quite mad for
two and three-quarters of an hour.

The ribbons for the walking stick—so.

The buckle of the heeled, pointed shoes—so.

The breeches and stockings, the waistcoat and lace,
the voluminous linen shirt and the coat, the glorious
coat, the finest creation of the admirable Crichton of
London, cut from a bolt of superfine the exact raw shade
of the midsummer heather: a ghostly gray-green violet
the color of June twilight.

Auberon surveyed himself with satisfaction. Tonight

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

51

the ship would land with Father Kuiril, who was to join
Auberon to his bride on the morrow. And Auberon
would tell the good Father that his hazardous journey
had been in vain—the mortal bride refused him.

She would. She had refused him every time these last
seven weeks that he had asked—refused him through
the reading of the banns, through the sewing of the
bride-gown. She would refuse him tonight.

Auberon collected hat, stick, and gloves, and went to
walk in the garden with his bride. She would refuse him.

Unless she loved him as he loved her.

But she didn't.

Thank God.

"Oh, look! The roses have bloomed!"

Jonet stopped at the edge of the flowers, enchanted.
Yesterday the trees and archways had been a mass of
tonsured green starred with small hard buds; today there
was hardly any green to be seen for the roses red and
white and every color between.

"It is summer; they have no choice. As I have none.
I fling my heart enthralled at your feet, heart's queen:
marry me or I will die," Auberon recited perfunctorily.

"Of course I will," said Jonet.

"Then, alas, I— What did you sayT'

'That I'll marry you," Jonet said. "You asked me to.
And—and I think we shall suit, Your Highness," she
added, flushing.

"You can't marry me," the Prince de la Cockaigne
said in a strangled voice.

Jonet looked up quickly at the sound of his voice. She
turned as white as she had been red, but managed to
reply in a steady voice.

"You asked me a question and I answered it. If you
wish to begyke me, Your Highness, there is nothing I
may do to prevent you."

Auberon spun away and stared blindly at the hedge
covered with perfect blossoms. "I will not cry off, my
Heart—I may not. My love, how could you do this to
me?"

Jonet stared at him, hearing endearments mixed with
ravings.

52

Rosemary Edghill

"Do you wish to marry me or not, Your Highness?
You have only to tell me, you know." Her tone was
even, but her hands clenched into painful fists in the
folds of her half-mourning.

"I love you," Auberon groaned.

"And I, you, Your Highness," Jonet answered stead-
ily. "What could be simpler?"

"Anything," Auberon snapped. "Listen, Prettyheart,
there is a thing you do not know of me—"

"Only one? There is everything I do not know of you,
sir, but one thing I do: If you had never meant to marry
me, you might have left me at Carterhall."

"I do not withdraw my offer," Auberon said, "I may
not tell you why, but I tell you this much truly: My
wealth is no more than phaerie gold. It is an illusion."

"Then we shall have to live in a cot, sir," said Jonet.
"Or perhaps you will come with me to The Horn and
Wheel and we shall scrub pots together."

Auberon turned back to her and took her arm. "I am
telling you the truth," he said menacingly.

"And what if you are? If you were the Lord of the
Hollow Hills himself, I would still marry you."

Auberon reared back as if he had been struck.

"You don't know what you're saying, Prettyheart. The
Fair Folk are not kind—they are the angels who fell
from Heaven when God opened the gates to cast Lucifer
down. Now they are too wicked for Heaven and keep
their place in Man's world by paying teind to the Prince
of Hell. Would you wish to be their sacrifice?"

Jonet regarded him steadily from some seconds. "The
entire County is coming for the wedding," she offered
when he said nothing.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" roared Aubeorn.
"Why do you think your accursed stepmother cried off
and gave you to me in her place?"

"Did she? Then I make no doubt it was because you
were a Phaerie Lord who wanted her as his teind to
Hell!" Jonet shot back.

"Yes," Auberon said. "That is why I wanted her. That
is why—" He stopped. "That is not why I want you, my
sweet Heart."

Jonet hung her head, twisting her betrothal ring round

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

53

and round her finger. The tears that trembled unfailing
on her lashes were turned to blood by the sunset light.

"You are trying to frighten me with nursery tales,"
Jonet said in a trembling voice. "This is the Age of Rea-
son. There are no—"

"There are no kingdoms where the tyrant Revolution
has not walked, and her creature Napoleon grows daily
in power. Do you think France the only land from which
its aristocracy has had to flee in fear of their lives? My
people, too, have been dispossessed. If you marry me,
Jonet Ellen, you give your life into my hands," said the
Prince. "Think, I beg you, of what you do!"

"Do you love me as I love you?" Jonet asked. The
tears spilled gleaming down her face.

Slowly Auberon sank to his knees before her, and
pressed his cheek against her hand. "I love you more
than life, my Heart."

"Then I will marry you," Jonet said.

He tried to kiss her hand, but she tore it from his
grasp and fled. Over the sound of her running feet Aub-
eron could hear her sobbing.

The wedding was celebrated with an excess of cere-
mony possibly more fitting to a coronation, solemnized
first by Vicar Goodbook in the village church, and
then—once the Parish Register was signed—by Auber-
on's own priest in Auberon's own chapel.

The second ceremony was for Jonet a blurred memory of
incense and and singing. The ring of black and crystal was
taken from Jonet's finger and replaced with a massive
braided band of hot red gold. Then the kiss of peace was
placed upon her trembling lips by the Prince whose Princess
she now was, and the wedding cup was poured and passed.

And then it was done.

All through the long and public day Jonet was aware
of Auberon's eyes upon her, and when they were at last
alone, he gave her no chance to protest or reason or
soothe, and the fire in his eyes rose up and consumed
her utterly.

"Lady—Lady—Lady—" In her dreams Jonet heard
Perry calling her. As she opened her eyes, the voice

54

Rosemary Edghttl

jumbled into notes of birdsong. She blinked, unable to
believe what she saw.

Broceliande—as it had been before Auberon came
here. She lay in the West Tower, the one that had
burned, and its shattered walls were open to the sky.

Her husband was gone. Slowly Jonet rose to her feet.
She picked her way through the tumbledown of ancient
fire-charred beams and stepped out through the gap in
the ruins that only yesterday had been the french doors
of the library.

"/ tell you this much truly: My wealth is no more than
phaerie gold. It is an illusion."

Jonet Bellamy Vertdubois, Princess de la Cockaigne,
stood barefoot on the icy broken paving overlooking a
wilderness of thorn. It was the garden, wild with half a
century's wilderness.

Auberon had been telling the truth.

"// you were the Lord of the Hollow Hills himself, I
would still marry you," she heard herself reply.

At least she was not forsworn.

Jonet pressed her hands to her temples and racked
her brain for scraps of phaerie lore, turning over all that
she could remember of what Auberon had said. Prince
of Elphen whose phaerie glamour vanished with his
passing, pledged to deliver up, every seven years, his
mortal bride to Hell.

But this wasn't Hell, Jonet thought, shivering. This
was Scotland.

And if Jonet had not been delivered up, there was
only one other person who could have filled the bargain.

Jonet walked through the kitchen garden and up to
Carterhall's kitchen door. Her thick woolen night rail
was wet to the knees and her feet were bruised and
bleeding from the stones she trod upon to reach here.
This door, of all the doors in Carterhall, would be off
the latch.

Her clothes were in the nursery, just as she had left
them, shabby and overlooked in the great events that
had transformed her life. She hesitated over her two
black dresses, but in the end she lifted from the clothes-
press the old blue gown that no amount of hard use and

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

55

country rambling could spoil further. She dressed
quickly, and when she was done, the mistress of Car-
terhall looked like any country farmwife.

"What are you doing here, girl?"

Jonet turned slowly. The Dowager Countess had obvi-
ously been hurriedly roused. Her eyes were flat with
fear, but she glared at Jonet with the implacability of a
cornered kitchen rat.

"I am dressing, Stepmama. And then I am going to
Hell to fetch my husband back."

"He is gone?" The Dowager peered behind Jonet as
if she expected to see Auberon lurking there. "Then—
Then we can all be comfortable again. He forced me to
give you up—he swore to kill all of us if I did not. Jonet,
child—"

"He is my husband, and I am going to bring him
back." Jonet caught up the red riding-hood that lay upon
her bed, picked up her hatbox, and turned to go.

"No!" Avice caught her stepdaughter's arm. "You
don't know what you are saying—he is a monster; I have
seen him as he truly is—"

"And so have I." Jonet pushed past her stepmother
and hurried down the stairs.

Darkness fell as Jonet guided the small pony trap
through the hills. She tried to convince herself that she
was not lost—she had planned to head south to Gretna,
and from there take the Great North Road that led to
London, because Auberon had said that he had friends
there. But she could not even find the road, let alone
London.

Over the thud of the pony's slow steps and the unoiled
creak of the flywheel trap, Jonet slowly became aware
of hoofbeats heading toward her on the road. She
strained her ears and heard the jingling of spurs and tack
of an animal at a jog-trot. Wearily Jonet let the lines
drop. Shochad stopped, and Jonet waited for the horse-
man to pass. She pulled the hood of her cloak forward
over her face and hoped there would be no trouble.

The hoofbeats stopped.

"Stand and deliver," an English voice drawled out of
the darkness.

56

Rosemary Edghitt

it isn 't fair! was Jonet's first thought.

"If you please, sir, let me pass. I am nothing of any
interest to you," she said carefully.

"That's as may be," said the voice, "but as a man with
a job to do, it's my business to decide whether you're
interesting or not."

There was a creak of leather as the rider urged his
horse mincingly forward. Its shape swam disorientingly
into focus: a piebald roan, coat blotched red and white,
with a great red clown-circle about one eye. The eyes
themselves were milk-pale; sightless.

"Her name is Justice," the rider said. He wore high
black cavalry boots with silver-handled pistols stuffed
into their tops. "She may be blind, but she can find her
way in the dark." As if in confirmation, the mare snorted
and shook her head.

He doffed his plumed tricorn and bowed tow over his
horse's withers, and the moonlight struck a golden aure-
ole from his midnight hair. Even in such small illumina-
tion Jonet could see that his eyes were blue as the
winter sea.

"Stand and deliver," he repeated politely. "Rings,
watches, valuables . . ."

"Oh, but I haven't got any of those things!" Jonet
said crossly. "I'm lost—well, not lost exactly. I just don't
know where I'm going."

The highwayman frowned, appearing to consider Jo-
net's outburst. He replaced his tricorn on his head and
as he did so, Jonet saw the blood staining the backs of
his pale gloves.

"Oh, but you're hurt, sir!" she said in spite of herself.

The highwayman's lips curved in a mocking smile.
"They are old wounds, and hardly trouble me now."

But Jonet was already scrabbling in the hatbox she
had brought for her kerchiefs. "Old wounds indeed—
they're still bleeding! You must take these," she said,
standing in her cart to reach him. "And for heaven's
sake, get to a surgeon! Riding out with your hands so
marred; I never heard of such foolishness!"

Meekly the highwayman held out first one hand, then
the other. Jonet wrapped and tied the handkerchiefs
around them. The blood soaked through almost at once.

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

57

"It is all of a piece with being a highwayman, I make
no doubt, and very likely you were shot by someone
with a perfect right to do it," she scolded fiercely.

The highwayman laughed and tipped his hat to her.

"I never was much for the letter of the Law. Despair
of my mother. Someone must ride, Jonet Ellen, and I
have been at it these many years."

"Who are you?" Jonet demanded. "How do you know
my name? I am looking for my husband—have you
seen him?"

"I have, but he's a long way from here now—and
since you don't know where you're going, and you
haven't a watch, perhaps you need one." He reached
into his coat-cuff and pulled out something that gleamed
silver in the night.

Automatically Jonet spread her knees to catch it; it
fell into her apron with a solid thud, and only when she
picked it up, did she see what it was. A watch.

Auberon's watch.

"How did you get this?" she demanded, but the high-
wayman merely laughed.

"The wages of virtue, my child—and of biffing the
ungodly on the beezer a time or two. Use it wisely."

He collected his harlequin mount and turned his horse
away. Jonet shouted to stop him, but she might as well
have been addressing the wind. At last, even the sound
of his horse's hooves had vanished.

Sheer weariness nearly made her drop the watch. With
shaking fingers Jonet opened it—and received another
shock.

The face was still painted with moons and stars and
suns, but now the painted face dipped and bobbed in its
case with every movement of her hands. And the hands,
instead of wheeling with clockwork progress through the
day, slid liquidly about the dial, hour and minute hand
together, to point down the road in front of her.

Not a watch, now. A compass.

Guided by the pointing hands of Auberon's transfig-
ured watch, Jonet's pony trap rolled through Elphame's
shadows. June became July; then August, September;
and Jonet realized she did not make this journey alone.

58

Rosemary Edghill

September became October as she neared her goal, and
now bodies hung in chains along the sides of the road,
reminding Jonet afresh of what she had managed to for-
get in all the months of her journey—that to ransom
back her husband, she was not going to Elphame or
even to England, but to Hell.

The markers at the sides of the Great North Road
now said High Hellborne, and the road itself turned,
beneath Shochad's plodding hooves, from rutted autumn
mud to dull pale bricks that glistened yellowly where his
iron shoes scarred them. The road to Hell was paved
with pure gold.

Jonet swallowed her unease and pressed her hand
hard beneath her breastbone. On the horizon ahead she
could see the shadow of the gallows.

Tyburn.

In London the Tyburn gallows were long since torn
down—Papa had attended the last public execution held
there on the very day his wife produced his only daugh-
ter, so Jonet knew the date precisely: November 7th,
1783. But here the gallows remained. Jonet closed her
eyes tightly, urging the pony to hurry past the ghastly
spot.

"Jonet! Jonet Ellen!"

Jonet dragged the pony to a stop again; he danced
and shied, impatient to be gone.

"Jonet Ellen Bellamy!"

Jonet turned toward the sound. There was a woman
sitting on the edge of one of the gallows platforms. She
was dressed quite in the first stare of fashion; the only
thing not quite a la mode was the lady's hair: it was
innocent of wig or powder, and even in the evening light
it gleamed redder than blood.

"Had enough with staring y'r fill, girl?" she said, mak-
ing her way down from her grisly perch. Her fashionable
West End drawl made it hard for Jonet to understand
her.

"I—I beg your pardon," Jonet said.

"And you might that, for leaving it so late. Howbeit
that it took you these four months to make your way
down from the Wall?"

Jonet had no idea what wall was meant, but she knew

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

59

she must be polite; if there was one thing her journey
had taught her, it was that rudeness could have conse-
quences far beyond those set forth in the Good Book.

"I am very sorry, but I had no idea I was expected."
The strange woman had reached the side of the pony
trap, and Jonet saw that her skin was soft and dark to-
gether, like figs in honey.

"And how not—with Florizel leading your precious
Auberon about Charlatan House iike an ape on a
chain?" Dark arching brows proclaimed the artifice of
her hair; she looked very exotic, like a drawing in a
book. Jonet might have been afraid of her, save that
what the strange lady said drove everything else from
Jonet's mind.

"Auberon? My husband? You know where he is?"

"All Hell knows where he is, girl—his trial and hang-
ing will be the delight of the Little Season, I make no
doubt—unless you've come to save him?"

Jonet stared into the bright black eyes before her.

"And if I have?'1 she said cautiously.

The woman smiled broadly, showing strong white
teeth with a rather canine curve to them.

"Then I can tell you a thing or two that will get him
back. You've come in good time—with that beneath
your stomacher." She pointed to the thickening curve of
Jonet's waist, and climbed without further ceremony into
the trap. "Well, make haste, girl—or do you want to be
outside the gates when the sun sets?"

Mechanically Jonet lifted the ribbons. "But who are
you—and what do you care if I get my husband back?"

"In life I was a queen—and dogs licked up my blood
when I fell, girl, so beware the sin of pride. And for the
other—" for the first time in their short acquaintance
the woman seemed to hesitate. "For the other, even the
dead in Hell need the living to pray for them," Queen
Jezebel said.

"Now tonight will be your only chance—at the end of
the month he goes to the Tower and you'll have no
chance of claiming him then," Jonet's hostess said
briskly from the rose-red parlor of her modest Palladian
townhouse on Dark Moon Street.

60

Rosemary Edghill

\

Jonet leaped to her feet in agitation, nearly spilling
her tea. "Tonight? Claim him? But how?"

Queen Jezebel smiled a slow reptilian smile. "By the
child you carry, child—there is no surer way."

The soiree this evening at Charlatan House would see
the presentation of nearly a score of Perfidious Albion's
likeliest damsels. Prince Florizel's corpulence had long
since outstripped all but the most militant corsets, but
the Prince Regent still had an eye for a pretty girl.

"You must make him speak to you," Jezebel told her,
over and over. "He must speak first, then you can
speak—without that, you have no chance."

Jonet nodded, barely hearing. Auberon was here,
somewhere in this infernal mirror of London, and soon
she would have him back. Or she would have failed, and
doomed all three of them to a fate unguessable.

With Queen Jezebel at her side, Jonet entered Charla-
tan House.

The Prince had taken a fancy to the superheated pag-
nanisms of the East: The prolix interplay of colors was
enough to make Jonet's eyes ache. Everywhere she
looked there was a new wonder: painted Chinese paper,
carved Indian screens, bowls and tables from Aegypt on
jewel-bright rugs from fabled Persia. The whole effect,
Jonet thought guiltily, was rather Papist—and it was
quite as hot as it was supposed to be.

Queen Jezebel's hand was ice cold on Jonet's arm as
they moved through the outer rooms. All around them
were splendidly dressed men and women. As she and
her companion passed, they turned to stare, and then to
murmur behind their fans.

Gowns here cost more than the year's living they did
on Earth. Here the cost of a presentation gown was all
you had, and Dives and his lady were well represented.
Among this gaudy company Jonet walked unadorned, in
her plain blue gown and her scarlet mantle with her soft
brown hair hanging free. They stopped before a set of
carved and gilded doors that bore a horribly precise re-
semblance to the engravings of Carleton House that
Jonet had seen in Ackerman's Fashion Repository on
the infrequent occasions she chose to peruse it. Wigged

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

61

and liveried footmen in scarlet coats embroidered with
flames and golden serpents stood on either side of the
doors; between them was a gigantic Nubian holding a
carved ivory truncheon topped with a small gold repre-
sentation of a lion devouring a unicorn.

He smiled broadly when he saw Jezebel.

"Well, Mrs. Ahab, it's been some time since we've
seen you here."

"I have had little reason to come," said Jonet's com-
panion coolly, "but I stil! have the entree. Do let me
in, Cerberus."

The gigantic majordomo laughed, and struck the doors
with his stave. The footmen swung them open, and Jonet
and Jezebel passed through.

The room was paneled in red silk. Each panel was
bordered by an effusion of baroque gilded plasterwork.
The chandeliers and torchieres that lit the scene were
all made of colored glass, and the drapes half-drawn
over the windows at each end of the room were black
velvet. The effect was indescribably lurid.

Her sponsor had left her side—Jezebel's presence
would only betray Jonet to the suspicious and vindictive
Prince—and Jonet was beginning to feel faint when a
commotion at the far end of the room signaled that the
Regent had arrived.

Everyone in the room immediately drew back toward
the walls, so that His Highness would have the space to
pass unimpeded about the room. Jonet, alone now, plied
elbows and stout shoes to gain herself a place in the
foremost ring of preferment-seekers.

"In the name of Mary Virgin, whose Son died upon
Tree, Florizel must grant one wish to any woman great
with child who comes before him. Only beware, Jonet,
that he does not trick you into asking only what he wants
to give."

Jonet would have recognized the Prince Regent at
once, even without the jeweled orders and ribbons that
decked him like a gaudy tinker's cart, but was surprised
to find that he was not atone. Several favorites were
with him.

She did not see her husband.

The Regent saw her. He beamed; a look of horror

62

Rosemary Edghill

spread over the face of the man beside him, but before
anyone could speak, the Prince had uttered the fatal
words:

"How now, little lady, and what brings you to Town?"

"My name is Jonet Bellamy Vertdubois, and I have
come to ask for my husband back, in Mary's name."

Jonet threw back the scarlet mantle that had con-
cealed her condition. The Prince Regent drew back with
a hiss that momentarily transformed his face into some-
thing not remotely human.

"A bride!" he gasped. The wildfire buzz of discovery
circled the room before Jonet could draw breath.

"Well," said the Prince unpleasantly. Though Jonet
had not thought there was any room to spare, the people
who had a moment before pressed in on her fell back,
and she and Prince Florizel stood in a charmed circle
of emptiness.

"Your husband, was it, Lady? I'd ask for safe passage
from this place, were I you."

"He will try to trick you," came Jezebel's voice in
her memory.

"Give me my husband, Your Highness, in Mary's
name," Jonet said again.

"Well p'raps I shall, and p'raps I shan't. I dare say
you don't even know where he is."

Jonet looked up and did not see Auberon anywhere.
She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out
his big silver watch. Its doubled hands pointed unerr-
ingly to a man who stood at Florizel's left shoulder,
garbed all in winter's brown.

"This is he," Jonet said, placing the watch into his
hand. As silver touched flesh the deception vanished,
and Auberon appeared. Florizel danced a small furious
dance step upon the black glass floor.

"Well! Well! Well!" His florid complexion grew even
redder; he paused to take snuff and sneezed several
times. Jonet waited.

"So you think you've won," Florizel said at last. "I
make no doubt where to lay the blame for this trumpery
mummery. But you've failed! Ask for anything I have,
mortal bride, and you may have it—but you must leave

THE PHAERIE BRIDE

63

something behind to remove the guests of my father's
kingdom."

The room exploded into mocking laughter, and Jonet
felt her cheeks grow hot. But surely Queen Jezebel had
known this limitation when she told Jonet how to win
back her husband! Jonet stood without speaking.

"Very well," snapped Florizel, "I will be merciful.
Give me the child and his father may go free."

"No!" Jonet and Auberon spoke with one voice. Flor-
izel turned on the Phaerie lord.

"She pleads prettily—but does she know for what? If
she will not give up the child, then you, my lord, must
give up your illusion!"

Florizel waved his quizzing-glass. The watch was
struck from Auberon's grasp. It fell to the floor and
shattered.

And Auberon began to change.

His skin darkened, as if fire consumed him from
within. Horns appeared on his brow; they blossomed
into great curving spirals that brushed his shoulders. He
had been large before, but now he was monstrous; his
hooves rang against the glass and when he flexed his
arms, his coat split down the back with a single crack
like thunder.

"Will she have you, Phaerie lord—once you are made
mortal and stripped of all your power?"

In answer Jonet stepped forward and put her small
white hand in Auberon's large leathery black one. She
turned to Prince Florizel.

"Many husbands who should wear horns do not," she
said, "and so I do not mind that my husband wears them
with no cause. And I ask you for the third time, Prince
Florizel: Give me my husband, in Mary's name."

Snow was still upon the ground this Lady's Day, and
along the lane that led to Carterhall a tall man dark as
a gypsy walked, leading a fat white pony. The woman
on its back was heavy with child; she clung to the pony's
ragged mane with one hand and the folds of her red
riding-hood with the other.

"I'm sure they'll let us in," she said in the manner of
one who is not saying this for the first time.

64

Rosemary Edghill

"If," said her husband dryly, "there is anyone to let
us in. Your country inns are an education, lady wife—
your stepsisters married, your stepmother taken up for
coining—"

"And transported," Jonet added helpfully. "But surely
there will be someone there—Papa swore the fires must
never go out in the library, and so there must be some-
one to tend them. They will know me."

"And you will come into your own again," Auberon
said.

"I already have," said the Lady of Carterhall.

BELLE BLOODY
MERCILESS DAME

by Jane Yolen

World Fantasy Award winner Jane Yolen has written well
over 150 books for children and adults, and well over 200
short stories, most of them fantastical. She is a past presi-
dent of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America
as well as a 25-year veteran of the Board of Directors of
the Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators. She
lives with her husband in Hatfield, Mass., and St. An-
drews, Scotland.

An elf, they say, has no real emotions, cannot love,
cannot cry. Do not believe them, that relative of
the infinite Anon. Get an elf at the right time, on a
Solstice for example, and you will get all the emotions
you want.

Only you may not like what you get.

Sam Herriot, for example, ran into one of the elves
of the Western Ridings on a Sunday in June. He'd for-
gotten—if he'd ever actually known—it was the Summer
Solstice. He'd had a skinful at the local pub, mostly Ten-
nants, that Bud wannabe, thin and pale amber, and was
making his unsteady way home through the dark alley
of Kirk Wynd.

And there was this girl, tall, skinny, actually quite a
bit anorexic, Sam thought, leaning against the gray stone
wall. Her long ankle-length skirt was rucked up in front
and she was scratching her thin thigh lazily with bright
red nails, making runnels in her skin that looked like
veins, or like track marks. He thought she was some
bloody local junkie, you see, out trolling for a John to
make enough money for another round of the whatever.

And Sam, being drunk but not that drunk, thought
he'd accommodate her, even though he preferred his

65

66

Jane Yoten

women plump, two handsful he liked to say, hefting his
hands palms upward. He had several unopened safes in
his pocket, and enough extra pounds in his wallet be-
cause he hadn't had to pay for any of the drinks that
night. His Mam didn't expect him home early since it
had been his bachelor party. And with Jill gone home
to spend the last week before their marriage with her
own folks, there was no one to wait up for him. So he
thought, "What the hell!" and continued down the alley
toward the girl.

She didn't look up, but he was pretty sure she knew
he was there; it was the way she got quiet all of a sud-
den, stopped scratching her leg. A kind of still
anticipation.

So he went over to her and said, "Miss?" being polite
just in case, and only then did she look up and her eyes
were not normal eyes. More like a cat's eyes, with yellow
pupils that sat up and down rather than side to side.
Only, being drunk, he thought that they were just a junk-
ie's eyes.

She smiled at him, and it was a sudden sweet and
ravenous smile, if you can imagine those two things to-
gether. He took it for lust, which it was, of a sort. Even
had he been sober, he wouldn't have known the
difference.

She held out her hand, and he took it, drawing her
toward him and she said, "Not here," with a peculiar
kind of lilt to her voice. And he asked, "Where?"

Then without quite realizing the how of it, he sud-
denly found himself sitting on a hillside with her, though
the nearest one he knew of was way out of town, about
a quarter of a mile, near the Boarside Steadings.

He thought, I'm really drunk, not remembering walk-
ing all this way. But that didn't stop him from kissing
her, putting his tongue up against her teeth until she
opened her mouth and sucked him in so quickly, so
deeply he nearly passed out. So he drew back for a
breath, tasting her saliva like some herbal tea, and
watched as she shrugged out of the top of her blouse,
some filmy little number, no buttons or anything.

She was naked underneath.

"God!" he said, and he really meant it as a sudden

BELLE BLOODY MERCILESS DAME	67

prayer because she was painfully thin. He could actually
count her ribs. And she had this odd third nipple, right
on the breastbone between the other two. He'd heard
that some girls did, but he'd never actually seen anything
like it before.

He wondered, suddenly, about Jill and their wedding
in a couple of days, and it sobered him a bit, making his
own eyes go a bit dead for a moment.

That's when the girl stood up on those long skinny
legs and walked over to him, pressing him backward,
whispering in some strange, liquid language. Suddenly it
all made sense to him. She was a foreigner, not British
at all.

"Aren't you cold, lass?" he asked, thinking that
maybe he should just cover her up, here on the hillside,
and never mind the other stuff at all. Because Jill would
kill him if she knew, the girl so skinny and foreign and
odd.

But the girl put her hands on his shoulders and pushed
him back till he lay on the cold grass staring up at her.
It was past midnight and the sky still pearly, this being
Scotland where summer days spin across the twenty-four
hours with hardly any dark at all. He could see faint
stars around her head, and they looked as if they were
moving. Then he realized it wasn't stars at all, but some-
thing white and fluttering behind her. Moths, he thought,
Or gulls. Only much too big for either.

She lay down on top of him and kissed him again,
hard and soft, sighing and weeping. Her hot tears filled
his own eyes till he could not see at all. But all the while
the wings, not moths, not gulls, wrapped around him,
He did not feel the cold.

He woke hours later on the hillside and thought they
must have had sex, or had something at any rate, though
he couldn't remember any of it, for his trousers were
soaked through, back and front. He felt frantically in his
pocket. The safes were still there, untouched. His wallet,
too. His mouth felt bruised, his head ached from all the
beer, and he could feel the heat of a hickey rising on
the left side of his neck.

But the girl was gone.

68

Jane Yolen

He stood slowly and looked around. Far off was the
sea looking, in the morning light, silvery and strange. He
was miles from town, not Boarside Steadings at all, and
there was no sign of the thin girl, though how she could
have disappeared, or when, he did not know. But leaving
him here, alone, on the bloody hillside, drained and
tired, feeling older than time itself must have given her
some bloody big laugh. Well, he hoped she got sick,
hoped she got the clap, hoped she got herself pregnant,
little tart. And all he had to show for it was a great
white feather, as if from some bloody stupid fairy wing.

And brushing himself off, he started down the cold
hillside toward—he hoped—home.

THE LAST WARRIOR

by Tim Waggoner

Tim Waggoner's fiction has appeared in 100 Wicked Little
Witch Stories, 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories, and the
forthcoming A Horror Story a Day: 365 Scary Stories. He
makes his home in Columbus, Ohio.

t4"O ise, Alfarnin!"

AX The voice— a woman's, he thought, an old
woman's—seemed to come from a great distance. Alfar-
nin tried to open his eyes, but he was tired, so very
tired. . . .

"There is no time for this, elf! Get up! Skuld com-
mands you!"

He felt a pair of age-weakened hands tugging on his
arm. He tried to pull away and roll over so that he might
shrug off the old woman and give himself up completely
to the darkness she was so determined to drag him away
from. But he found himself able to turn only partway.
Something was blocking him.

He opened a weary eye and found himself staring into
the horrid, twisted face of a troll. With a cry, he sat up,
right hand instinctively groping for a weapon.

"Don't bother, elf," said the old woman disdainfully.
"It's dead. Everything's dead here. Save you, that is."

Alfarnin saw she spoke the truth. The troll's eyes were
wide and staring, its hairy chest a ragged ruin. He lifted
his gaze from the fell beast to see he sat in the middle
of an endless expanse of corpses, all clad in battle gear.
A vast array of weapons protruded from the bodies—
spears, pikes, swords, axes—and blood covered the
twisted, still forms like a crimson blanket.

He looked down at his own simple tunic. Once it had
been the plain gray of an elfin farmer; now it was a stiff,

69

70

Tim Waggoner

dark red edging toward brown. He touched his long sil-
ver hair and found it clumped and matted with dried
blood. He ran a hand across his chest and stomach,
searching for wounds, but those he discovered were, for
the most part, minor, though they hurt like blazes.

"Your weapon, warrior.'" The old woman sneered this
last word.

Alfarnin turned to look at the woman for the first
time. She wore a black robe, hood drawn forth to cover
her head, completely obscuring her features. If it hadn't
been for her tremulous voice—and for her wrinkled, age-
spotted claw which held forth his hand scythe—he
couldn't have guessed at her age.

He took his scythe, noting that the dulled blade was
caked with flaking red-brown. "I was working in my
fields when I heard HeimdalPs horn," he explained. "I
had little time to prepare before the battle was joined."
The final battle: Ragnarok.

He could remember little after HeimdalPs signal had
echoed throughout the universe, summoning all creation
to the last great war. To Alfarnin, it had been a blur
of images—flashing blades, thundering warhorses, razor-
sharp claws—and a cacophony of sound—the battle cries
of the gods, the answering bellow of giants, steel clang-
ing against steel. And above all, the screams of the
dying. So many screams.

But it was over now; the warriors, both those who
fought for Light and those for Dark, were still, their
voices silenced forever. And somehow, miraculously, im-
possibly, Alfarnin, a simple tender of crops, was the
lone survivor.

And then he remembered what the old woman had
named herself. "Skuld, you said. You are one of the
Norns, the three Fates."

"I am. She whose province is the future."

Alfarnin looked out across the endless open graveyard
that surrounded them. There were no buzzing flies, no
feasting gore crows. The air was motionless, flat and
dead.

He spoke in a weary, hollow voice. "After this day, I
would think there is no future."

THE LAST WARRIOR

71

Skuld chuckled dryly. "That, my dear elf, is entirely
up to you."

Gerald Winnick, all of twenty-four years old, stood at
the altar sweating and waiting for the Wedding March
to begin. His rented tux was too loose around the waist
and too tight around the throat. He was having trouble
breathing, and what little air he did get in lay hot and
heavy in his lungs.

His groomsmen stood beside him, three of his best
friends from high school, but the way he felt, he might
as well have been alone. They weren't the ones getting
married today, they weren't the ones gambling their en-
tire future on the next half an hour or so.

It wasn't that he didn't love Laura—he did—but the
idea of being married to her, being her Husband with a
capital H, freaked him out more than a little. Intellectu-
ally, he knew it was just a ceremony, a few words and
an exchange of rings, a confirmation of a love that al-
ready existed, no big deal.

But emotionally, it felt as if something new was about
to happen, something almost magical. His whole world—
and Laura's, too, of course—was about to change
forever.

The priest smiled at Gerald kindly, then gave a nod
for the organist to start playing. As soon as the familiar
strains of the Wedding March began (though Gerald had
never heard them outside of a movie or TV show be-
fore), Laura appeared in the rear of the church, holding
on to her father's arm. They stood there a moment, then
began slowly walking forward arm in arm. Laura was
beaming, and her father looked as if this were the proudest,
and perhaps in a way the saddest, day of his life.

Gerald started trembling. He loved Laura, he did, but
she was a bit self-centered, tended to think of herself
before anyone else, and while she expected him to share
every little feeling he had, she was reticent about sharing
hers. And a dozen other things, minor complaints, really,
mostly tiny quirks and eccentricities which everyone had,
Lord knows he had his share, but when you took his
weirdness and hers and put them together. . . .

Laura and her father reached the foot of the altar.

72

Tim Waggoner

Her father kissed her on the cheek, then she kissed him.
Then they turned to face the priest.

"Who gives this woman away?" the priest asked in a
voice which filled the church. It seemed to Gerald as if
God himself were speaking.

"Her mother and I," Laura's father answered clearly.
Then he gave Laura a last kiss and sat in a pew next to
her mother while Laura mounted the steps to stand next
to Gerald. Her maid of honor stepped down to arrange
her train, then took her place once more.

The priest began talking, but Gerald wasn't listening.
He looked at Laura and she smiled at him, a smile full
of love and hope, with not a hint of nervousness. Gerald
felt her love for him, and while it didn't wash away his
doubts completely, it went a long way toward blunting
them.

He realized that he had been waiting for something,
for some sort of cosmic guarantee that he was doing the
right thing. But it was a guarantee which wasn't forth-
coming. He knew now that there were no sure things in
life, and that a big part of love, real love, was faith. The
question was, did he have that kind of faith in Laura?
In himself? In them?

When the time came, Gerald said, "I do," and, even
if his voice quavered a bit, he was sure he meant it.

"Wake up, elf!"

Alfarnin opened his eyes and rubbed the sleep out of
them. The sky above was the same dull gray it had been
when he'd lain down. Skuld had said there was no time
anymore, so there would be no sunrise, no sunset, just
endless gray.

Alfarnin rose to his feet. Skuld stood a few feet away,
hands on her hips, and while the elf still couldn't see
into the shadowed depths of her hood, he had the im-
pression she was looking at him disapprovingly.

"You certainly sleep a good deal," the Norn
grumbled.

Alfarnin brushed dirt from his tunic. He had had to
move several bodies in order to clear a space to sleep.
There was no way he could move a giant, even though
some of them were hardly larger than man-size. Nor

THE LAST WARRIOR

73

could he move one of the Aesir, not just because he was
loath to dishonor the gods even in death, but because
despite their normal size, they tended to be made of
sterner stuff than men and were far heavier than they
looked. The dwarves, while less dense structurally, were
still heavy enough, and, being a light elf, Alfarnin
couldn't bring himself to touch one of the hated dark
elves. So in the end, he had moved some of his own
lithesome people and prayed for forgiveness to the spirit
of Frey, who among other things was—or rather, had
been—god of elves.

"I traveled quite a distance yesterday." Alfarnin real-
ized such concepts as yesterday and tomorrow had no
meaning any longer, but he knew no other way to ex-
press himself. "I was weary."

Skuld snorted. "An illusion, nothing more. Your body
felt tired because it expected to. But without Time, you
cannot tire." She gestured toward the endless expanse
of bodies which surrounded him. "Have you not noticed
that the corpses do not rot? That rigor has not claimed
them? They are as fresh as the moment life fled them.
No time is passing here, elf, because Time itself has
died."

"If Time has died, then why do I seem to experience
it? Why must I still walk one step after the other? Why
do I still sleep and dream?

"I told you, it's an illusion!" Skuld said impatiently.
"You only think—" She broke off. "Did you say you
dreamed?"

Alfarnin nodded and told the Norn of his strange
dream, of being a young human on the day of joining
to his mate.

Skuld said nothing at first. Finally, she made a dis-
missive gesture. "We exist in an in-between state here,
between Life and Death, Existence and Nothingness.
Odd experiences are to be expected in such a place."

Alfarnin shrugged. He was no mage or philosopher,
just a simple farmer. Such weighty matters were beyond
him. Still, it had been an interesting dream. Alfarnin
himself had never been fortunate enough to be allowed
to take a wife; the elf lord who ruled the lands he farmed
had never seen fit to grant his permission.

74

Tim Waggoner

Alfarnin put the dream out of his mind. He had work
to do. "Are you going to accompany me this day, Skuld?
Or are you going to remain behind as you did
yesterday?"

"I have no need to travel with you, elf. When you
reach your destination, I shall be there."

"Very well." He started walking, picking his way care-
fully around the bodies of the fallen warriors, stepping
over them and, when he had no choice, on them. He
walked in no particular direction, for according to Skuld,
he didn't have to bother with that. He simply needed to
concentrate on his goal and continue forward.

It didn't seem so simple to him. As Skuld had ex-
plained to him "yesterday," he was to find the body of
the Allfather Himself, Odin, and tear the heart from His
chest. And then the elf was to bear the heart to Yggdras-
ill and use it to renew creation itself.

Alfarnin, as did all who lived, knew the prophecy of
Ragnarok and what was to occur afterward. The gods
and their allies would perish while bravely standing
against the forces of Darkness. For a time, the world
would be as ashes, cold and barren, but then a spark of
life would return and creation would begin again, new
and vital.

But the tales had never said exactly how the world
would be restored. But Skuld had known. Being the Fu-
ture, how could she not?

He remembered how she had explained it to him.

"Think of Existence as a wheel, elf," she had said not
long after his first awakening. "A wheel which is con-
stantly in motion, turning slowly from today to tomor-
row, one day following the next in stately progression
until the end is reached and the wheel grinds to a halt.
But the Wheel is circular; it has no true beginning and
end. All it needs to resume its turning is a push. A push
which you shall give, elf."

"Me?" he had said, incredulous. "Such a task is for a
god, or a great hero! I'm not even a proper warrior!"

"True," Skuld had agreed, a little too quickly for Alf-
arnin. "But you are all that remains. I would do it myself
if I could, but I cannot. The Future can make itself
known, but it cannot create itself."

THE LAST WARRIOR

75

Alfarnin hadn't been sure he understood the differ-
ence, but Skuld said that was the best explanation she
could give, and he had no choice but to accept it.

"What will the new world be like?" he asked.

"Much the same as the old. The wheel has turned
many, many times before this. There have been other
Ragnaroks; this was merely the latest."

"Have I always been the only one to survive?" Alfar-
nin asked.

Skuld laughed. "Don't flatter yourself, elf! The cycle
of Existence has its variations. There is always at least
one survivor of the final battle, sometimes more, and I
always guide them so that they might restart the wheel
on its endless journey. This is the first time you have
survived the battle. Last time it was Loki." She shook
her head. "Getting him to start the wheel again took
quite some doing."

Alfarnin hadn't particularly wanted this duty, what
Skuld called "a great honor." After the horrors he had
witnessed—and committed—during Ragnarok, he would
rather have lain down and surrendered to the ultimate
darkness, so he might forget.

But if he truly was the only one left, he had no choice,
did he? Besides, Skuld had assured him that when the
wheel began its new cycle, he would eventually be reborn,
quite likely in a higher station because of his actions.

"Who knows?" she had said, "you might even end up
a lesser god."

So now here Alfarnin was, traipsing through the grisly
aftermath of the final battle, searching for the corpse
of the Allfather, without any more guidance other than
Skuld's assurances that as long as he continued on, the
elf would eventually stumble across—

He stopped. There, in the sky. Was that . . . yes, it
was. Off in the distance, circling in the air, was a large
black raven. It seemed Skuld had been right; he had
found what he was looking for.

Alfarnin hurried forward.

Gerald, all of thirty now, stood next to his wife, arm
around her shoulders, and tried to radiate calm and
strength, despite the fact he was scared to death.

76	Tim Waggoner

Laura wore a blue housecoat and ugly green slippers,
the latter provided by the hospital. Her hair was limp
and mussed, her face pale, eyes red from crying. Gerald
felt like crying himself, but he wouldn't allow it, not in
front of Laura. She needed him to be strong.

Make that they needed him to be strong. Gerald
turned away from Laura and looked through the window
at the tiny being who, along with his wife, made they.
Nurses bustled around the small (so small) infant, a girl,
who didn't have a name yet because she'd come so early.
Eight weeks, to be precise.

The nurses checked various tubes and monitors while
Gerald's tiny daughter lay motionless within the sterile
warmth of her incubator. It was a poor substitute for a
mother's womb, but it would have to do.

Their baby looked so frail, so weak, so tired, as if it
exhausted her just to breathe and pump blood through
her not-quite-finished body. She needed a name, they
had to think of a name. But right now Gerald couldn't
do anything except hope to God the tiny thing would
live a few more hours.

Tears began to flow down well traveled paths on Lau-
ra's cheeks. Gerald tore his gaze from his struggling
daughter. "It'll be okay, honey," he said. He forced a
smile. "She's a fighter, just like her mom." He didn't
quite manage to sound as he'd have liked, but Laura
smiled at him gratefully and wrapped her arms around
his waist. And they stood like that, together, and
watched, waited, and prayed.

Alfarnin stopped, disoriented and dizzy. He stood be-
fore the shaggy, blood-matted corpse of a great wolf,
many times larger than any ordinary canine. This was
Fenrir, child of Loki and, according to the prophecy of
Ragnarok, the slayer of Odin. And above, circling
slowly, was the midnight-black raven.

Alfarnin didn't recall anything from the moment he
had first spotted the raven in the sky, didn't remember
crossing the intervening distance. No, that wasn't quite
true. He had had another of those strange dreams. Only
this hadn't been a dream, had it, for he had been awake.

THE LAST WARRIOR

77

A vision of some kind, then. But a vision of what, ex-
actly, Alfarnin wasn't certain.

"Something wrong, elf?"

Skuld stood beside him, as she had promised. Alfarnin
started to tell the Norn of his vision, but then decided
against it. It hardly seemed important, not compared to
the task which lay before him. He shook his head and
examined the body of the huge beast that had been the
great wolf Fenrir.

From the tales Alfarnin had heard all his long life, he
had expected Fenrir to be quite a terror, but despite the
wolfs gigantic size, it made no more impression on him
than the thousands of other corpses he had seen in the
timeless interval since first awakening. Perhaps the hor-
rors he had witnessed during Ragnarok and after had
numbed him. Or perhaps even the dire wolf Fenrir
didn't seem so fearsome when compared to the sick,
helpless terror of a parent desperately praying for the
survival of his ailing child.

"Elf?" the Norn prompted, a measure of concern in
her voice.

Alfarnin shook his head once more and did his best
to cast the vision from his mind. He was an elf, not a
man of Midgard, and work lay before him.

Fenrir's jaws had been torn apart, by Odin's son
Vidar, taking vengeance for his father's death. Or so it
must have been if the tales held true.

*It strikes me as odd, Skuld."

"What does, elf?"

"That Odin and the other Aesir, knowing how Rag-
narok was to turn out, did nothing to try to change it."

Skuld's tone was that of an impatient parent lecturing
to a slow-witted child. "It was predestined; there was
nothing they could do but play out their assigned roles.
The Wheel turns, and both gods and mortals follow,
whether they like it or not."

"They hardly seem like gods, then, do they?" the elf
mused. "More like dancers stepping out their well-
rehearsed movements to someone else's tune?"

"Such is the way of existence," Skuld said.

Alfarnin said nothing. Instead, he pointed his hand
scythe at a black form which lay partially buried beneath

78

Tim Waggoner

one of Fenrir's huge front paws. "Another raven." He
knelt down and prodded it with the blade of his scythe,
but it didn't respond. "Dead."

"Huginn," Skuld said. "The raven of Thought. When
Odin perished, so did it likewise, for the Allfather was
done with thinking."

Akfarnin gestured to the other raven still circling
above. "And that one?"

"Muninn, the raven of Memory. Odin may be gone,
but as long as we are here to remember him, Muninn
lives on."

Alfarnin nodded, though the Norn's explanation made
little sense to him. "What do I do now?"

"I told you—you need to retrieve the Allfather's
heart." She pointed to the belly of the great wolf, and
Alfarnin remembered: Fenrir was supposed to devour
Odin.

He glanced at his scythe's dulled blade. It would
hardly do the job. He began to search the fallen war-
riors, looking for a dagger—a very sharp dagger.

Hours later—or at least what seemed like hours
later—Alfarnin stepped back from the wolfs open gut
and dragged a gore-smeared forearm across his sweaty
brow. His gray farmer's tunic was soaked with blood
which refused to dry: another feature of the timelessness
of this place, according to Skuld. Alfarnin wished he had
possessed the foresight to remove his clothing before
beginning his grisly work.

"You are close, elf," Skuld said. "I can feel it!"

Alfarnin took a deep breath, ignored the pain from
his unhealing wounds, and stepped back into the beast's
carcass. After a bit, he reached what he thought was the
creature's stomach, and with a final downward swipe of
the elf s borrowed dagger, the leathery organ parted. A
flood of foul-smelling liquid gushed forth, splashing onto
Alfarnin. His gorge rose instantly, and he turned away,
fully expecting to empty the contents of his own stom-
ach, but though he retched violently, nothing came up.
He didn't have to ask Skuld; this was no doubt yet an-
other result of the strange nature of this place.

When the urge to vomit subsided, Alfarnin turned

THE LAST WARRIOR

79

back to the cavity he had created in Fenrir and there,
mangled and curled into a ball, reposed the body of
Odin, Allfather, Lord of the Aesir and all creation.

Alfarnin had never seen Odin before, though he had
heard many, many tales of the god over the centuries.
And truth to tell, he was rather disappointed. He had
expected to find an imposing, kingly being. But instead
Odin was a tall, lean old man with a long scraggly gray
beard and a black leather patch over one eye, or rather,
where an eye had once been. His golden battle armor
seemed too large for the scrawny body, as if its owner
were a beggar who had suddenly been pressed into ser-
vice instead of the all-powerful god of gods.

It was difficult for Alfarnin to understand why such a
mighty being, forewarned of such an ignominious end,
would not choose to take steps to avoid it. Unless, as
Skuld had said, He had had no choice. Well, Odin had
played out his part; so, too, would Alfarnin.

"Forgive me, Allfather," he whispered, then raised his
dagger and returned to his work. A bit later he held in
his hand a blood-smeared orb of polished silver. The
Heart of Odin.

Skuld clapped her withered hands in glee. "One more
journey, elf, and you are through. You must take the
heart to the base of Yggdrasill. As before, keep your
destination strongly in your mind as you walk, and you
shall eventually reach the World Tree. I shall await
you there."

And then she was gone.

Alfarnin wiped the heart off on the cloak of one of
the low-ranking Aesir lying not far from Fenrir, tucked
his dagger in his belt, and then, even though he really
did not need it any longer, he picked up his scythe. He
had started his journey as a farmer, and it seemed only
right that he finish it as such.

He began to walk, but stopped when he heard a soft
thump behind him. He turned to see Odin's second
raven, Muninn, lying dead on the ground. Now that the
Allfather had surrendered His heart, what need was
there to remember Him anymore? Alfarnin looked
across the field of corpses. What need to remember any
of this?

80

Tim Waggoner

Reeking of blood and gastric juices, he resumed his
journey.

Gerald was thirty-nine, too young to have to worry
about words like tumor and chemotherapy. But his can-
cer hadn't bothered to ask for his I.D. before inviting
itself into his body and settling in. Now, after three sur-
geries (one major, two minor), he sat in a waiting room
of the outpatient wing of Holland Memorial Hospital,
wracked with nausea from his latest chemo treatment,
trying to choke down a horrid concoction of powdered
lemon drink mix and contrast dye that would make his
innards more photogenic for the CT scan.

His oncologist said his chances for a cure were good;
not great, but good. So Gerald endured the surgeries,
the CT scans, the blood tests, x-rays, the chemo, and
worst of all, the soul-gnawing fear that in the end none
of it would be enough. Because he desperately wanted
to live.

Not so much for himself. Given the choice, he wanted
to squeeze as many years out of his life as he possibly
could, but he'd lived to thirty-nine, and overall, he was
satisfied with the time he'd had. And while he wanted
to live for Laura, he knew he didn't need to. Their mar-
riage hadn't exactly been storybook perfect, but it had,
on balance, been a good one. But Laura was still young,
at least relatively so, and she was a strong woman. If
she had to, she'd get by without him, maybe even find
someone and remarry. Knowing this comforted him.

No, he wanted to live primarily for Caitlin. She'd be
ten next month, and even though she was getting to be
quite a big girl, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving
his daughter without a daddy.

And so he sat in the uncomfortable waiting room
chair, his gut churning angrily, and concentrated on
holding the contrast down.

When this latest vision released Alfarnin, he found
himself standing at the base of what appeared to be a
craggy gray mountain. He looked up to see, beyond the
clouds, a vast canopy of green covering the sky. No,
which was the sky. He had reached Yggdrasill, and as

THE LAST WARRIOR

81

with Fenrir, he had no memory of traveling here. Per-
haps Skuld had been right and there really was no Time
in this place.

"Of course I was right."

The Norn stood before him, features still hidden
within her hood. Her feet touched the edge of one of
the World Tree's three gigantic roots.

"I remember the tales," Alfarnin said. "This is the
root beneath which the Well of Fate rests."

Skuld nodded. "And where the gods themselves came
to hold council each day. As guardian of the Well, I
sometimes listened in as they talked." She chuckled. "Or
more often, argued."

Alfarnin frowned. "What of your sisters, Urd and Ver-
dandi? Past and Present?"

"We are One." Skuld opened her robe to reveal not
the body of a wrinkled old crone as her voice promised,
but rather an empty black space in the middle of which
hung the motionless shape of an ancient, crude spinning
wheel. At the center of the wheel was a circular depres-
sion, just the right size, Alfarnin thought, for the heart
of Odin.

"Past, present, future . . ." Skuld snorted. "Merely
names. They are one and the same. See the Wheel. Does
it have a beginning or end? No, it is a circle, unbroken.
We are One, and that One is the Wheel."

"It isn't moving."

"The Wheel has completed its cycle. It's up to the last
survivor of Ragnarok—to you—to give it a push and
start it turning again."

Alfarnin didn't have to ask what was expected of him.
All he had to do to renew creation was to place the holy
heart in the center of the Wheel, and all would begin
anew. It was his duty, to his gods, to his fallen elfin
brothers and sisters, to all who had fought and died in
service to the Light. But he hesitated.

"The visions I experienced, Norn—what did they
signify?"

They are nothing, elf," Skuld snapped. "Now fulfill
your purpose this cycle and give me the heart!"

"Why here? Why did you not ask for the heart when
I first removed it from Odin?"

82

Tim Waggoner

"Because only here, at the base of Yggdrasill, am I
truly one with the Wheel. But forget all that; the time
for explanations is past. Give me the heart!"

"Why don't you take it from me?"

"I told you, the Future cannot make itself! You must
make it, here and now!"

"Tell me about the visions, Norn." Alfarnin smiled.
"After all, if there is no Time any longer, then we have
no need to hurry, do we?"

Skuld was silent for a while before finally sighing.
"Very well. I told you that there is always at least one
survivor of Ragnarok, and that it is this survivor's task
to renew creation. During the journey to salvage Odin's
heart and bring it to the World Tree, the survivor has
three visions of what his life in the next cycle will be
like, so that he understands why he must restart the
Wheel and what his reward will be."

"My visions were of mortal life as a man of Midgard,"
Alfarnin said. "But a Midgard unlike any I have ever
heard tell of."

"Being the Future, I am quite aware of the visions
you experienced." She paused. "However, I fear that I
cannot explain them."

"Perhaps the next cycle will be different from the
last," Alfarnin suggested.

"Impossible. The Wheel is the Wheel. There may be
minute variations in its turning, but the path remains
ever the same. It begins with creation, then comes the
rise and flourishing of the gods, and then Ragnarok,
turning after turning, cycle after cycle, without end."

Alfarnin thought for a moment. "What if I do not
give you the heart? What of the Wheel then?"

"You have no choice; you must give me the heart. It
is the role appointed you by destiny."

"I think you are lying, Norn. You told me before that
once the Wheel stopped, Time ceased to be. Before Rag-
narok, I was just another of Fate's puppets. But I think
many things have ceased to be now, Fate among them.
For the first time in my existence, 1 am truly free to
choose."

Skuld said nothing.

THE LAST WARRIOR	S3

"I repeat my question," Alfarnin said. "What happens
to the Wheel if I do not give you the heart?"

"Without the heart—which is the heart of Creation
itself—the Wheel cannot continue. It shall cease to be,
as will Existence itself."

"All existence?" Alfarnin challenged. "Or just this
one?"

Skuld didn't respond.

"Your Wheel is a prison, Skuld. Perhaps it's time for
creation to be free." Alfarnin held the heart of Odin in
his left hand and raised his scythe above it with his right.

"Hold, elf! You don't know what you're saying! With-
out the Wheel to give shape and form to existence, all
will be Chaos! Events will unfold randomly, and no one
will ever know what might occur next, for anything
might happen, anything at all!"

"Considering the senseless carnage of Ragnarok—of
Ragnaroks untold—I think not knowing what tomorrow
will bring might be better." Alfarnin raised the scythe
higher.

"Think hard before you act, elf," Skuld warned. "This
other, lesser Midgard you would create would be naught
but a bastardized world where uncertainty and ambiguity
rule in place of the gods. There would be no fixed roles,
no set future, no clear division between Good and Evil.
In that world, you would be but a mortal man, weak,
frail, doomed to fret over petty anxieties and frustrations
all of your short life. Here, in Asgard, you were—and
could be again—an elfin warrior, fighting on the side of
Light in the most glorious battle Creation has ever
known!"

"Glorious?" Alfarnin thought of the slaughter he had
witnessed, and its aftermath. "Meaningless is more like
it." He tightened his grip on the scythe. "And the man
Gerald will be far more of a warrior in his quiet, unsure
way than the elf Alfarnin ever was."

He brought down the scythe and plunged its blade
into the silver heart of Odin. Skuld screamed, the Wheel
cracked apart like thunder, and the world was no more.

"We're ready for you now, Mr. Winnick," the CT
technician, a heavyset blonde woman, said gently.

84	Tim Waggoner

Gerald nodded, set down his empty cup, and stood
too quickly. His vision went gray and he swayed dizzily.
He thought for a moment he might fall, but then the
technician came forward to take his elbow. His vision
cleared, the dizziness passed, and he smiled gratefully at
the woman, only a little embarrassed.

With the technician's help, Gerald made his way out
of the waiting room and walked slowly down the hall
toward the CT room, one unsteady step after another.

WOMAN OF THE
ELFMOUNDS

by Paul Edwin Zimmer

Paul Edwin Zimmer is best known for his Dark Border se-
ries, but has written fine novels such as The Survivors,
which was coauthored with his sister, Marion Zimmer Brad-
ley. A cofounder of the Society for Creative Anachronism,
he has studied both Japanese and Chinese swordfighting
styles, and incorporates that knowledge into his fiction
where possible. He lives in Berkeley, California.

Conn Mac Cathla rode over the high moors in the
twilight, shivering in the icy-fingered wind. He
clutched his cloak about him, wondering if he had yet
crossed Clann Domnann's border into the lands of his
other foes, the Elves of Caer Liath. Earth and sky were
gray; hooves on the frozen sod and wind the only
sounds.

He had ridden hard that day, fighting and fleeing the
men of Clann Domnann. His hewn shield was cast away,
his javelins thrown; his horse tired, and he far from the
lands of his people.

The first stars pricked the darkening sky. A distant
wolf howled, and Conn's face twisted. He hated wolves.
While yet a child, he had seen his brother's torn and
mangled body, and since that day had hunted and slain
the gray killers whenever he could find them,

He drove his heels into his horse's sides and loosened
his sword in his scabbard. The wolf cried again, and,
nearer, another answered. His horse shied and snorted,
ears pricking, hooves pawing at the ground. Another
howl rose in the darkness, and then wolves filled the
night with howling, echoing wearily over gray waste-
lands. The horse reared, hooves lashing air. Conn drew

85

86

Paul Edwin Zimmer

his sword, crouching low against the horse's back as it
broke into a mad run.

A glimmer on the horizon warned of the moon. A
deep-throated chorus rose as silver light spread across
the moor. Conn's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Wolves were all about him, black in the moonlight. His
horse screamed and reared as one loped across his path,
and Conn was nearly thrown. But the wolves did not
attack. They were seeking other prey.

As he wondered, a scream came out of the darkness
ahead, and Conn, a snarl of hatred on his lips, turned
his horse toward the sound. Before the terror-maddened
horse was aware, they were in the midst of the pack,
and a wolf cried out as it was trodden beneath driving
hooves. Conn leaned to slash at another.

Beyond the pack, a man and a woman had their backs
to a great tree, and the man held a slim straight sword
that seemed to glow with its own fire.

Conn's broadsword lashed in a terrible arc, cleaving
flesh and bone. The horse screamed, rearing in terror,
and Conn, leaning overbalanced from the horse's back,
fell among the wolves. He was on his feet in a moment,
with a shout of derision, heavy blade sweeping about
him. There was an answering shout. Conn glanced
quickly toward the tree and saw the woman, swift as a
squirrel, run up the stem.

Then a great black body hurtled toward his throat; a
weight struck against his chest and smashed him from
his feet. He dropped his sword; one hand shot to a hairy
throat, holding the snapping jaws away, while the other
hand tore a dirk from his belt and stabbed.

A sword flashed, someone dragged the body from him,
and then a slim figure was standing over him with a
blade of flame.

Conn rolled to his feet and snatched up his sword,
and the two stood back-to-back, wolves snarling about
them. Conn's huge iron broadsword whirled in great,
blood-splattering swaths; but the stranger's blade, keen
point flashing, darted about like a bird.

From the tree, the woman's voice cried out. Over the
snarling of the wolves rang an answering cry, and a
sound of hoofbeats. A wolf leaped into the air, snapping

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

87

at the slender shaft that quivered in his side. The warrior
at Conn's back shouted exultantly as two horsemen, with
longbows in their hands, rode into view, shooting from
the saddle into the ranks of the pack. A shimmering
hung about them, and Conn half-turned to see. . . .

A wolf sprang from the side, and teeth crunched sick-
eningly in his swordarm. His head crashed against a
stone, and drove a shower of sparks before his eyes.
Dimly, as through a mist, Conn saw the flaming blade
slash the wolfs throat. He struggled up, then fell into
darkness.

He awoke, a long time after, hearing bagpipes play a
merry tune. But what piping! Old Buinne, the best piper
of Clann Cormac, could not have matched it, nor the
piper of the High King. Conn lay quiet in the darkness
behind his eyelids, listening to wild weaving patterns of
rising and falling sound.

His eyes opened. He was lying on a bed in an arched
room, bark-covered walls rising in a gentle curve. A cur-
tain blew aside to reveal a grass-grown slope. From be-
hind the curtain came the piping. A woman with long
night-black hair sat beside him. Her body was slender
under green cloth; her eyes gleamed like stars. As she
saw his eyes open, a smile came into her face.

"Welcome, and be at peace." Her voice was gentle as
a dove's call. "Are you in pain?"

"I am not," Conn answered, and knew that he lied,
for the injured arm throbbed angrily. "But who are you,
and what is this place? And who is it that plays such
music? No piper ever played so!"

Her laughter was part of the music.

"I am Ethbrien, daughter of Alador, and you are on
the Elfmound of Caer Liath. It is my brother, Kiaran
Mac Alador, whose piping you hear, and he is Lord of
the Elfmound."

A cold shock washed over him. For generations, there
had been war between Clann Cormac and the Elf-Folk
of Caer Liath, ever since his forefather, Art Mac Ainnle,
had slain the Lord of Caer Liath, and taken from him
the jewel called "Daughter of the Sun.11 For the Elf-

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Paul Edwin Zimmer

Folk do not die, save in battle, and the hatred of men
lives through the ages, passing from father to son.

"How came I here?" he asked.

"After we drove away the wolves, we found you lying
senseless, your arm broken. The healers worked long—
but we owe you much, Conn Mac Cathla."

"You know my name!"

"Conn of Clann Cormac, son of Cathla of the Mighty
Arm. Yet you saved my life, and that of the Lord of
Caer Liath."

"It was for no love of you," he answered gruffly.
"Yet . . . now that I see you in the sunlight, I am glad.
You are too beautiful for wolfs meat."

The piping stopped.

The tall elf entered the room, the pipes under his arm.
A green cloak was about him, over a green tunic and a
pale brown kilt. A sword hilt of white bronze jutted from
a scabbard decked with gold. His face was beardless as
a boy's, yet his eyes were ageless. Conn's eyes fell before
the age and wisdom and power in those clear, gleaming
eyes that seemed to bore into his heart. . . .

Men said that by looking into a man's eyes an elf
could strip his soul and read hidden secrets, and there
were other, darker tales. . . .

"An enemy you have been, Conn Mac Cathla." Kiar-
an's voice was light and high, with a music to it that
eased Conn's heart. "Yet you are welcome here. A great
debt we owe you, one we cannot repay."

"Is not the mending of my arm a payment?" asked
Conn. "And twice you saved my life when the wolves
would have torn me."

"When two fight side by side, each defends the other,
lest both die. Nor is the life of a mortal a fair payment
for that of an elf, for a mortal's is forfeit from birth. As
for your arm . . ."

"A warrior needs his arms,' said Conn.

True. Yet that arm was raised in our defense—" He
broke off as another entered the room, shorter than Ki-
aran, but as like him in face as a mirror. His kilt and
tunic were green, and a sword, twin to that Kiaran wore,
hung at his side.

"So this is the mortal," he said. "A great man he is,

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOVNDS

89

surely. How can those shoulders ever get through a
door?"

"My people put wide doors on their houses," Conn
replied. "But here perhaps I must walk sideways."

"Well said!" laughed Kiaran. "This is Sian, my
brother. It was he with Cahir Mac Indol, who rode to
our aid last night." Sian's face sobered.

"It is a strong man you are, and a great debt we owe
you. The lives of my brother and sister are dearer than
a mortal can know."

Conn had no answer to that, and, tired, lay back, let-
ting his eyes roam until they came to rest on the girl,
Ethbrien. They stayed there for a time.

An elf, old as-— his mind shied from that thought, and
his gaze drifted up to the arch of he roof. Where the
bark-clad walls joined, there was a line of meeting, and
he saw that the bark of one wall differed from the other,
as oak from ash.

"How was this chamber built?" he asked.

"Two ancient trees stand here," Kiaran answered, "so
old that only Indol the Healer can recall when they were
saplings. When they had grown so large that they began
to crowd one another, we taught them to grow so that
they formed this arch. Behind you and overhead for
many feet, their bark touches in a kiss, and then they
branch apart again. From a distance they seem one
tree."

Conn drew a deep breath. The smell of the trees came
to him; he had never smelled trees before, not to
know them.

"They are the most ancient trees on the Mound," said
Kiaran, "1 fear that the time is not far, as we reckon
time, for them to die."

'They fade and die," came Sian's sad voice, "as all
things fade and die. Yet these have stayed with us longer
than most." Conn saw their eyes fill with tears.

"Come!" cried Ethbrien. "What way is this to cheer
a wounded guest? Your pipes, Kiaran; let them sing of
joy!"

Kiaran turned, lifting the pipes as he passed from the
room. There was a swift, rushing drone as the bag filled;
music rippling like children's laughter; rapid darlings of

90

Paul Edwin Zimmer

sound that danced in joy—joy blended with a sadness
that did not weaken the gaiety, but strengthened it—to
hear that music was to live, to feel the heart beat and
the blood flow, and it seemed to Conn that the music
wove about Ethbrien, shimmering in her beauty. She was
life, deathless and eternal. The music wrapped about her,
blended into her. . . .

Another elf appeared in the doorway, eyes laughing.
His face was a child's face, his slight form youthful, but
his eyes were grave and old. He turned and gestured,
and the music ended.

"This is a merry time!" he laughed. "Our mortal's
eyes have opened now, his ears can hear sweet music.
But what of your arm, warrior? I am Indol the Healer."
He gripped Conn's arm and moved it gingerly. Conn
gave a startled grunt of pain.

"It mends," said the elf, "but time will pass ere you
lift a sword again. A wolfs jaws are strong—that bone
snapped like a twig. But it will heal. Now for your
head . . ." His fingers passed gently over Conn's temples.

"Better than I had dared hope. It heals. But next time
choose a softer stone to fall on! You were dying, your
brain bleeding, when they brought you here. For two
days you have lain mindless. Kiaran and I had no time
to spare for your arm at first, for had your brain not
healed, you would have died, and your arm been no use
to you at all."

"My thanks," said Conn, licking suddenly dry lips.
"But how long before I am healed?"

"A month, perhaps, little more than that. We have
greater skifl at healing than your druids. If I bind your
arm tightly, and you do not overtire yourself, you should
be able to rise for a time tomorrow."

"It would be good to be on my feet again."

"Today it were best you were on your back," said
Indol. "But now I must change the bandage on your
arm, and then you must eat, and rest." his hands touched
Conn's eyes. "After you eat, you must sleep, under-
stand? Sleep and rest."

He felt the arm with gentle fingers. What he found
seemed to satisfy him, and smiling, he splinted it anew.

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

91

Conn  ate the thick stew  they brought, and  his  lids
grew heavy.

"Eat hearty, warrior; build your bones anew!" came
Indol's voice. Conn finished the stew, and lay back, eyes
closing. "Sleep!" Indol's voice said, and then all was
peace.

The next day, they helped him to rise and dress, and
let him walk about the Mound. The Healer strapped
Conn's arm tightly to his side.

"Be content to walk—no running, and no dancing,
however sweet the music!"

Conn found that he could walk alone, though he felt
weak and dizzy. With the Lord of the Elfmound at his
elbow, lest he should stumble or fall, Conn walked into
the sunlight, wondering to find himself safe among these
elves, foes of his clan since the "Daughter of the Sun"
was taken from the body of Alador of Caer Liath.

The sides of the mound were thickly wooded with ash,
beech and thorn. The sunlight glowed in emerald leaves.
Elves wandered among the trees, and off in a clear space
a laughing group raced about in some joyful game.

A day passed, and another. Clouds gathered, and
when they walked Conn out on the third morning, a fine
rain fell. Elves, in merry mood, seemed not to mind rain.
Some sat in small groups, laughing and talking, and oth-
ers shot at a mark. Conn watched them enviously. His
wounds ached with the dampness.

"Your people are in no rush to enter the Mound," he
said. Indol laughed.

"There are those who love this wet air better than the
sun. But it puts the pipes out of tune. Most will be in
later, to join the dancing. But you had best go in quickly.
Damp is bad for mortal folk, I am told."

They followed a winding path down and around the
hill, to the open doors of beaten bronze. A long, torch-
lit corridor led into the depths. Elves thronged the pas-
sage, and their laughter echoed about him.

At the end of the corridor a bright silver gleam made
the torchlight pale. Ethbrien stood glorious in silver
radiance.

"Welcome!" she cried in formal greeting. "The knife

92

Paul Edwin Zimmer

is in the meat and the drink is in the horn, but we have
waited for our honored friend." The joy of her smile was
like wine. "Come, Conn Mac Cathla, take your place at
our board.11

He followed her into a vast chamber filled with laugh-
ing folk, where silver light gleamed on walls paneled
with beaten gold. In the midst of the room, a tripod held
a great crystal sphere, and from this came the silver light;
but in each corner was another tripod, holding a gem.
A great hearth, hewn from the solid stone, blazed
fiercely, but its light was swallowed in the brightness of
the gems. One flamed green, and one red, another blue,
and the fourth a warm golden light.

Conn stood awestruck, and then the smell of roast
meats brought him to himself, and he walked to the long
table, where Kiaran sat beside the crystal sphere. Indol
and Sian helped him into a chair at the Elf-Lord's right,
and Ethbrien beside him.

A horn of mead was set before him, and a dish of
stewed herbs. Across the room a harp began to play,
and a clear tenor voice sang softly.

Conn could make nothing of the words, yet somehow
the sad and beautiful music got into his head and
brought strange visions of Elf-Folk dwelling in green for-
ests, drifting westward before growing tribes of men. He
saw them settle by the shores of the Great Ocean, to
live at last in peace. And then shiploads of men came
out of the East, to land with fire and sword upon the
shore of Eriu. . . .

The music ceased, and Conn found that he had barely
touched the food before him. Guiltily, he began to eat,
and realized that great hunger was on him.

Music began again as he finished the herbs; a woman
singing, a light and happy song that made him wish to
dance, but did not enchant his mind as had the other.
He drank deeply from the horn. Meat was set before
him, and red wine. Fruits followed, and then uisque-
baugh, that the elves had learned to brew because no
other liquor was strong enough to affect them. In the
corner near the green gem, a piper played a swift and
happy tune, and many among the elves leaped to their
feet and danced.

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOVNDS

93

Their dancing was unlike any he had seen. Kiaran and
Ethbrien remained at his side, but both Sian and Indol
joined the rushing, leaping elves who whirled about the
chamber like leaves in wind.

The uisquebaugh played like fire in his veins. The
woman at his side was so beautiful. A beauty truly
deathless, that could never age nor die. . . .

A strange glow went through him as her eyes turned
from the dance to meet his. Boldness came to him, per-
haps from the uisquebaugh, and they looked at one an-
other for a long time.

The music and the dancing stopped, and the elves re-
turned to their places. Conn, suddenly reckless, turned
to Indol.

"What say you, Healer? Am I strong enough to
dance?"

The elf laughed; then frowned in thought.

"You are not yet strong," he said. "Yet, if the dance
be not too strenuous—most of ours are. I know some
mortal music, if you would have me play."

Conn heaved himself to his feet. The room spun about
him, but he planted his feet firmly, and in a moment the
whirling stopped.

"Can you play The Stag in the Spring'?"

"I can."

"Play, then!" said Conn. "But it is not a dance that
should be danced alone. Will you dance also, Lady?"

She looked up, startled. "I know no mortal dances,"
she said hesitantly, "yet if you can show me—"

"I will, then. Come!" Smiles and laughter spread
among the elves, yet Kiaran's face was grave. Conn felt
his feet waver, and cursed himself for a fool. He had not
an elf s head for drinking! The room swayed about him.

The drones burst out with their deep, solemn roar,
and amidst them, shockingly sweet, rose the melody of
the chanter. Conn cursed his unsteady legs, but took a
deep breath and danced.

Ethbrien watched his feet, studying the complex, for-
mal pattern, and after a moment began to imitate him
with grace and ease.

The room reeled about him; his balance was failing.
At any moment he must stumble— The music stopped.

94

Paul Edwin Zimmtr

"You must not tire yourself," said Indol, beside him.
"There is yet much healing for your body to do."

Conn sat drinking, his head spinning, watching elves
leaping and whirling in their wild, beautiful dance; but
his eyes wandered to the beautiful face and slender form
of Ethbrien.

Conn awakened in an earth-walled chamber of the
Mound, with his head breaking from the uisequebaugh.
There was a bed of fresh green rushes beneath him, and
a covering of fur, and Ethbrien was watching him from
a corner.

He sat up, his pulse pounding . . . a dream he had
been having . . .

But dream and memory faded into pounding pain, and
he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw
amusement and pity in her eyes, and laughed, and she
with him, the laughter in her eyes spilling over into her
face and voice.

"I am sorry," she said, "I should not laugh—"

"Laugh on!" he cried gaily. "I should know better
than to match drinks with elves. But a hoof from the
horse that kicked me will do much."

They laughed again together, and she gave him uis-
quebaugh out of a leather bottle. The liquor roared in
his veins, and though the hammers in his head did not
stop, the promise was enough.

"I do nol remember leaving the Hall last night," he
said, "but I doubt that I walked."

She laughed. "Indol said it were best not to take you
out in the storm."

"It is not an elf s head I have for drink, nor an elf's
strength for rain," he agreed "yet your people seem so
light and fragile, like children. Your men are beardless
and slender, like young boys that I could break with my
one hand."

"It is not strength," she said, "You are like a great
bull, or a bear, with great muscles on the strong bones
of you, and yet you will pass and be gone as quickly as
they. But our life does not devour itself as yours does,
for the light that is in us does not fail. We are children
indeed, for we grow always—not in size, but our flesh is

WOMAN OF THE ELFMQUNDS

95

always that of a child, that can ever mend itself. But
why this should be 1 do not know. And it saddens me,"
she said, her eyes on his face, "for you are such a strong
and a noble man, and there are so many beautiful things
that change and fade and—die, while I live on."

Her eyes filled with aching sadness, and Conn felt a
driving need to drive the sorrow from her and make her
merry once more. He felt himself helpless—a warrior, a
man of the sword, with no knowledge of words to make
those sad eyes smile again.

He leaned down and kissed her mouth.

Her great eyes gazed into his, her two arms went
about his neck. Then she pulled free, and ran from the
room.

Conn sat alone, wondering at his own actions. Her
leaving left him shaken with longing.

She was life, imperishable, triumphant over time and
change and death. He would grow old, and die, yet she
would live on forever, and death would never touch her,
age never frost her dark hair, and he could live on in
her memory of his love.

He felt her eyes upon him from the doorway, and as
he turned, she ran laughing into his arms.

"! was afraid," she said. "I thought death breathed
on me."

"Hush," he said, and cradled her tightly in his arms,
but she would not be stilled.

"I am tired of watching all things pass. I had thought
that someday—no matter how soon, for there was no
hurry—I would take a lover from among my own people,
and we could go down the ages together.

"But now there is need, for you are only a man, and
soon you will die, and there is an end to our life and
our loving. I shall not go to the Land of the Young."

He did not understand, but she was in his arms, her
lips were on his, and that was what mattered. He kissed
her, silent and wondering, and rocked her in his arms.

After a time she stirred.

"I must speak to my brothers," she said.

He nodded, but fear was on him. She answered his
thought.

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Paul Edwin Zimmer

"I am the daughter of an Elf-Lord. I wed whom I
please."

She kissed him once more, and led him through the
corridors of the Mound to an emerald curtain. Here she
stopped, her hand on his chest.

"I will speak to them alone. All will be well—wait for
me." Her lips brushed his, the curtain swayed, and he
was alone.

Faint voices came through the curtain, but he could
not hear what was said.

He must leave the Mound, he thought, leave now in
silence and return to his people. For an immortal to
bring to herself the sorrow of mortals—surely the kin
who loved her would not permit this madness!

Ethbrien's eyes glowed on him, and her hand was in
his.

The Lord of the Elfmound sat in a carven chair, and
his sad eyes met Conn's as the man entered. Sian stood
behind, in his eyes sorrow and a raging flame.

"So, Mortal," said Kiaran at last, "Ethbrien told us
that she has—chosen." He waited for Conn to speak,
but the man had no words. He put his arm about Eth-
brien and faced them silently.

A flame leaped in Sian's eyes.

Kiaran held Conn's eyes with his own, and a smile
touched his lips, to defy the sadness in his eyes. Conn
met his gaze squarely, and the elf nodded gently.

"Courage—honor—strength." A bitter smile twisted
his mouth. "It is well that the shrub that mates the oak
should have some virtue.

'"We are few, we last elves. We wait here, on the
Shores of the World, for the ship that will bear us to
the Ever-Living Land, and we have little to do with mor-
tal men, or with anything which fades and dies, and thus
guard ourselves from sorrow. Yet now there is one
among us who will not sail to the Land of the Young.
And so you bring sorrow to us.

"Yet I have no power over Love, nor can I deny my
sister what is the right of all." He lifted something from
the floor—a sword in a leather scabbard, like those that
he and his brother wore.

"These swords were made in ancient times, before

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

97

Man came to this land. Three Alador had for his chil-
dren, one for myself, and one for Sian, and the third for
the Chosen of Ethbrien." The Elf-Lord rose from his
seat and stepping forward, buckled the sword about
Conn's waist.

"Welcome, Younger Brother, and may your Love for
our Sister never falter; may it prove as keen and bright
as the Blade you bear."

"May it never falter, Mortal—" Sian spoke, passion
in his voice. "For I swear, should you fail my sister or
bring her sorrow, wolves will gnaw your bones!"

Ethbrien gasped. Conn's eyes met Sian's, and they
glared at one another in silence.

"What folly is this?" Kiaran's calm voice came be-
tween them, sharp as bitter steel. "How can you threaten
a mortal with death, Sian, he who is born to it? Let us
not mar our sister's joy."

Sian glowered, but his eyes dropped. "I wish you well,
Mortal," he said at last. But there was weeping in his
voice.

Time is not, among the elves, for it does not touch
them; yet time draws unto itself those under its sway.

Four years passed, and on a day, Conn rode out hunt-
ing with Adiar, Erlin, and Arivel.

The day was bright and warm, though it was near to
winter, and the birds already far away upon their
year's journey.

They rode far out onto the moor, the elves laughing
or singing by turns, seeking about them with hawk-keen
eyes for traces of game. Conn carried hunting javelins,
and wore the elvish sword, with a round shield at his
saddle; but the elves bore long, powerful bows, and long
knives and light axes were in their belts.

They spread out in a long line, riding a little apart.
Adiar was ahead of the rest, for his horse was swift.
They came to a rise in the land and Adiar, passing over
it, was lost to view. As they came over the crest they
saw him below, sitting stock-still on his horse and gazing
sadly into the distance.

"There has been a battle here," he said, as they came
up, "and not long since. I saw the spirit of a mortal,

L

98

Paul Edwin Zimmer

fresh-slain and still in agony, rush past me on the plain.
I tried to speak to him and comfort him, but he fled
away and vanished.1

"May he find peace, and a swift journey—" said Ari-
vei, but Conn felt their eyes upon him.

Then a sudden shout from Erlin drove all thoughts of
human battles and wandering spirits from their minds.

A deer!" he cried, pointing to a line of low hills in
the north. "There by the stream. A young doe—and a
stag—there, in the trees beyond!"

Conn, farsighted for a man, strained his eyes to
glimpse a tiny dot that moved at the limit of his vision.

Arivel was off, his horse bounding toward the hills,
the other elves a hoofbeat behind. Conn touched his
heels to his horse's side and sped after them.

The deer vanished among thickly wooded slopes.
Adiar gestured toward a ravine on their right. The elves'
keen ears were cocked, listening. Conn thought he heard
a sound of hooves.

They turned their horses, and the ravine opened be-
fore them, its steep sides thickly grown with brush. They
rode in silence, seeking the herd with their eyes. Conn
could hear movement in the bushes to either side. It
would be good hunting.

But Erlin seemed suddenly ill at ease, glancing warily
about him, drawing an arrow from the quiver at his back.

"I feel eyes upon us," he whispered, "and not . . ."

A shout cut him off, and a crashing of horses through
the brush. Mounted warriors rode down the sides of the
ravine, surrounding them and cutting off their retreat.

There was no need of parley. The elves' bows were
bent and their arrows already flying. A thrown javelin
struck Erlin in the chest. Conn threw the spear in his
hand at the nearest foe, and tearing his shield from his
saddle, whipped out his sword and drove his heels into
his horse's side. Behind him he heard Arivel cry out;
then his blade was flashing among the horsemen. Men
fell before his blows. Rage and sorrow clouded his eyes,
and he saw only dim, confused shapes of men and horses
until a single face swam out of the chaos beneath his
sword—the face of Culain, his brother. . . .

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

99

His arms dropped to his sides: the sword fell from
his hand.

*       *       *

Culain pulled his tattered cloak more closely about
him.

"And now it is clear!" The firelight flickered on his
scarred, bearded face, and the shadow of his angry arms
clawed at the earthen wall of the hut.

"We thought you dead these four years, but you have
been held enchanted by the Moundfolk!" His voice was
bitter and harsh. "This long winter, and the wolves that
have come upon us, and the sickness of our cattle—there
can be no more doubt that these have all been brought
upon us by the Moundpeople!"

"But it is not true!" cried Conn, white-faced and
angry. "Elf-Folk—it is not their way, to use magic
against mortals who cannot ward themselves."

"You have been long within their spells." Culain's
eyes brooded upon him. "Their enchantments have en-
snared your mind. Did you not take sword against your
own clan, and slay men who had been your friends?"

"I did not know you!" said Conn. "All I knew was
that you had attacked our party and slain my friends."

"Your friends! And how is it you came to be hunting
with foes of your clan, who have warred with us for
hundreds of years, who even now use their magic to
strike against us?"

"They have used no magic against you—would I not
have known if they had?"

"What would a prisoner of the elves know of his cap-
tors' deeds? You think they would tell you of the attacks
on us?"

"I was no prisoner," said Conn. "I am wed to their
chieftain's sister, Ethbrien, the daughter of Alador."

"Alador! Alador was slain by Art Mac Ainnle, our
ancestor; twice a hundred years ago!"

The sun rose over the squalid huts of Clann Cormac.
Cattle were driven out on the moor to graze. The men
of the clan gathered, like gaunt wolves, before the
Chiefs hut. Old men, respected for their wisdom, min-
gled with young warriors famed for bravery.

100

Paul Edwin Zimmer

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

101

It was cold, and a brisk breeze blew across the moor.
Conn sat close to the fire, his cloak wrapped tightly
about him. He had lain awake much of the night, unable
to sleep in the suffocating closeness of the hut, arguing
against the doubts Culain had raised in his mind.

Coll, his uncle, Chief of Clann Cormac, older than
Conn remembered, palsied hands almost helpless with
age, sat facing him, wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak.

Culain—interrupted by many shrewd questions from
the old men—told of his unsuccessful foray upon the
herds of Clann Domnann. Clann Cormac, its herds and
fields depleted, was dependent on raiding for food. Cu-
lain told how, outnumbered and driven from the herd,
they had fled from their foes, at last taking refuge in
the ravine.

"We saw horsemen coming across the moor, and hid
among the trees. We thought them scouts of Clann
Domnann. When we saw by their gear that they were
elves, we held to our purpose, for one foe was as good
as another."

"I saw that there was a man among them," Aigidiu,
one of the younger warriors, broke in, "and I wondered
if our foes had combined against us at last. I did not
dream he was of our own people, riding with our foes
to hunt us out for Clann Domnann!"

"We were hunting deer!" cried Conn.

"A deer fled up the ravine before them and through
our ranks—" said Culain. "We could have taken it eas-
ily, had we not been after other game."

"You should have," said one of the old men. "We
could at least have eaten that, and you would not have
lost so many men."

"Elves followed," said Culain. "One sensed us—I saw
him turn to speak to the others—but by then they were
well within our trap. And we sprang the trap! The elves
died quickly—they are weaklings! But my brother is
harder to kill! He slew four men—"

"Kinsmen! Men of his own Clan!" shouted Aigidiu.
"Why is he yet alive?"

"He did not know us!" said Culain. "He was under
spell of the elves. He has been a prisoner of their en-
chantments for four years!"

"Oh, aye, the elves, it is always the elves." One of the
older men spoke. "How do we know the elves plan evil
against us? You say the famine is the work of elves. Yet
famine has come before, without elf-magic. You say they
caused Fingan's death, yet Fingan was an old man, and
wasted with many years. It is so strange that a fever
should take him?"

"You still doubt?" cried Culain. "After this you still
doubt? Four years gone my brother vanished, taken, we
now know, by the elves, and in that same year our trou-
bles began. Our crops were blighted and our cattle
killed, and a wasting fever sent upon Fingan, that we
might have no Druid to protect us! Is there no pattern
there? Are you so blind?"

"Let us hear what your brother has to say." said Coll.
"Let Conn speak!"

"We were attacked by Clann Domnann, and outnum-
bered." Conn looked around the circle of faces. Some
were uncertain, others, cold and grim, glared with ha-
tred. "We scattered, and I rode west, into the country
of the elves, trying to circle back to our lands. I saw a
man and a woman—I did not know that they were
elves—beset by wolves on the moor, and I hate wolves
too well to leave them their kill. I rode to their aid. I
was injured in the fight that followed, and the elves bore
me to Caer Liath. When I was healed, they gave a feast
in my honor—"

"A feast?" asked Culain. "And does that not seem
strange to you?"

"Strange? I had saved their Chief and his sister from
wolves—"

"A Chief and his sister? That explains it, maybe. Yet
were—a man of Clann Domnann, say—to save two of
our people, we would thank him, surely, and set our
Druid to heal his wounds, but a feast? More like flattery
than gratitude. But perhaps not to an elf. But tell us
how this Chief, and his sister, came to be wandering on
the moor when wolves were hunting?"

"Why—" Conn's brow furrowed as, confused by Cu-
lain's question, he tried to reach back across four years
of time. "—I do not remember, I do not know that they

u.

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Paul Edwin Zimmer

ever told me—something about a dream, I—" The voice
of Coll the Chief cut into his thoughts.

"Conn, tell me: Did you not fear the elves, knowing
them inhuman, and foes of your people?"

"Aye, at first, but 1 soon forgot . . ."

"You forgot!" cried Culain. "You were afraid, and
then you were not? And are they not immortal, with
uncanny powers, able to commune with the beasts of the
wild, and with the dead?"

"Aye . . ."

"And you did not fear them? You forgot that they
were foes of your Clan? And you doubt that an enchant-
ment was on you? But tell us the rest. Conn! Tell us of
the woman."

"What woman?" asked the old Chief.

"The first thing in the Mound that my eyes rested on,"
said Conn, "was Ethbrien, the daughter of Alador. She
was more fair than Etain of whom legend tells, and I
looked upon her and my heart went to her, and after
the feast . . ."

"And after the feast, you were wed to the daughter
of Alador!" rasped Culain. "Alador, who was slain by
our forefather twice a hundred years ago! Alador, who
died at the beginning of the feud between our people
and the elves! His daughter marries the descendant of his
slayer! And the Chief of the Elk-Folk permitted this—
Alador's son permitted this? And there was nothing
strange in it?"

Conn was silent, and he could feel the eyes of the
clansmen upon him. Culain's voice went on relentlessly.

"Nor was it strange, it seems, that you should desire
a woman whose father died two centuries ago, a woman
old when your father was born! Older than the oldest
crone in the village!"

"She is immortal!" cried Conn. "Age does not touch
her!"

"If that be true," Culain said quietly, "what is it that
she wants of a man who will be dust in forty years?"

Conn was aware that it was no longer hostility in the
eyes upon him.

It was pity.

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOVNDS

103

"And what of the others, I wonder?" said Culain.
Conn's head snapped up.

"Others?" he said, his voice cold and dangerous.

"Surely you do not think you were the first, in two
centuries?" said Culain.

Conn choked back anger, kept his hands at his sides.

"I was."

"After two centuries? You cannot believe that, man?"
said Culain. "An illusion was on you." Conn shook his
head. AH seemed very simple. In a moment he would
strike Culain to the ground.

"If a woman two centuries old can make you see her
as young and beautiful, no wonder if she makes you
think her a virgin, too," Culain shrugged. "But no mat-
ter. So they never told you why a Lord of the Elfmounds
and his virgin sister should be alone on the moor while
wolves were hunting. Strange, that folk so wise, and
skilled in magic, should be saved by a mortal warrior.
Well for them that you came when you did! Or did they,
perhaps, know that you were coming?"

Conn started. He saw where Culain's speech led, and
doubt came to him. His brother's voice seemed to echo
in his own thoughts.

'Were they, perhaps, waiting for you? Waiting to
weave their spells about you? Why else put themselves
in danger from wolves—if, indeed, they were wolves you
fought, and not elves in wolf-form. Injured and in their
power, they could put spells on you, bind you to them
and hold you hostage—with no wish to escape—while
they warred against us."

Conn was silent. The doubts his brother had raised
tore at his breast. How did he know that spells had not
been laid on him when he had first been brought into
the Mound?

One of the older men spoke across the fire.

"Culain is right. Conn has been bespelled, and cannot
be blamed for his deeds. He was hostage against the
time when we should know of their magic against us."

"Aye, Conn's tale leaves no doubt," said Coll heavily.
"Before, I, too, had questioned, thought that it might be
but ill-luck that beset us, and no magic of the elves, but
now we see that Culain was right."

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Paul Edwin Zlmmtr

Fierce mutters of agreement spread around the circle,
and wolfish smiles appeared as men who had despaired
found hope—hope, at least, of revenge.

But Conn sat with eyes on the ground, his mind war-
ring within him. Culain reached down and gripped
Conn's shoulder.

"Do you see it now, my brother? Are you free of
their spells now?" Conn looked up and was startled by
tears in his brother's eyes. "Do you see it now, man?
Are you returned to us?"

Conn's gaze returned to the ground before him. "It
seems you must be right," he said at last, tonelessly.

That night Conn dreamed, and the eyes of Ethbrien
came into his dream, bright as stars. And he heard Sian
and Kiaran behind her say, "We thought you dead." And
Ethbrien, joyful, "He lives!"

And he knew, somehow, that they had been seeking
him, sending their minds searching far from the Mound,
to find the ravine where ravens feasted on Erlin, Adiar,
and Arivel. Fearful then they had searched, and only
Ethbrien had thought to find him living. Her longing
drew him like silken nets, and tore at him like hooks.

"Come back to me, my love . . ." He seemed to reach
for her; but of a sudden Culain stood between them, and
she seemed a hideous crone, bent and withered.

"Come back to me, Conn!" she cried. "Come back . . .
there is a shadow between us, and he draws away. He
doubts me! In some way he doubts me! Conn, do you
not love me?"

"Conn!" The thing that Kiaran had become called to
him. "Do not let your doubt put false shapes on us.
Brush the veil from your mind and see us as we are!"

For a moment the wolf-shape wavered, and Kiaran's
beautiful, proud face peered through. But stubbornly
Conn willed the wolf back. They should not trap him
again!

"Conn, what is wrong?" Sian's voice, puzzled, came
from the second wolf. "Why do you bar your mind
from us?"

"No!" Ethbrien's voice wept, "he does not love me!

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

105

He does not love me! Conn, I am with child, come
back!"

Kiaran's voice, calm and soothing. "Fear not. Sister,
we will bring him back to you."

Their voices and their presence faded, but the hideous
crone-image of Ethbrien remained. The wolves crept
toward him. . . .

He awoke in the darkness and stench of the hut, cold
sweat drenching his body. The coals of the fire flared
briefly, casting a ruddy light on the dirt floor. He lay
back, and after a time fell into a sleep troubled by
dreams of Ethbrien's warm body turning to cold bones
against his own.

The next day a great cry arose, and young warriors
came running from the edge of he village. Culain ran to
meet them, Conn at his heels.

"Elves!" said the warrior who met them, gasping from
his run. "They say they come in peace. From Caer
Liath."

Culain turned to look at his brother, his face hard and
cold with rage.

"We will ride to meet them."

Conn and Culain rode out with the others of the vil-
lage. Each had his shield. Culain wore his great sword
of hammered iron, and Conn the long keen blade out
of the Elfmound, mate to those Sian and Kiaran bore.

Sian and Kiaran, shields on their arms and swords at
their sides, were waiting on a hill which overlooked the
village. Behind them were ten mounted elves with long-
bows in their hands.

Kiaran made the sign of peace and rode forward, Sian
at his side. Conn and Culain rode to meet them, while
the warriors of the clan waited, weapons ready. Kiaran
spoke first.

"We searched long for you, Conn, and feared you
dead. Our sister waits for you—she has wept much. It is
good that you have seen your people again, but surely
you will be coming along with us now."

Before Conn could even think what answer he wished
to make, Culain's harsh voice broke in, violently.

"Enough of that! My brother is free of your wiles

106

Paul Edwin Zimmer

now. You will not trap him again! Time now for you to
speak of peace, of an end to spells against us, and repa-
ration for the ill you have done. Else we shall attack
your Mound and destroy all the evil within!"

Kiaran looked at Culain with astonishment.

"What is this—? We have tried to make peace be-
fore, but . , ."

"But now you seek to regain my brother and enchant
him once more!" shouted Culain. "Four years he has
been slave to your enchantments, while your spells
wrought famine and disease among our people! Do not
think to enslave him again! You shall not have him. Nor
think we will let your attacks on us go unpunished. We
will destroy you utterly if you do not yield!"

"But this is not true!" cried Kiaran. "We do not use
spells against mortals! Conn, surely you do not believe
this madness?"

Conn wavered, uncertain what to believe. Memory of
his dream—vague, confused—the crone-image rose be-
fore him—

"So that was why he barred his thought from us last
night!" Sian muttered.

Conn's head snapped erect, his eyes wary; his fist
knotted on the reins and his eyes closed tightly, the
crone-shape floating before him. If the dream had
been true . . .

"Conn," Sian's voice reached him. "Listen to this
madman no more. Come to us, to Ethbrien . . ."

"To Ethbrien?" said Conn, his voice shaking, "that I
may be enspelled once more? Back to your illusions?
No, I will stay with my clansmen. At least I know that
they are real!"

"What are you saying?" cried Kiaran. "Have you
gone mad with this talk of illusion and enchantments
upon you?"

"He speaks of the spell put on him by your foul sis-
ter!" shouted Culain. "The illusion of youth and beauty
to make him love her that you might hold him as hos-
tage!" He spurred his horse nearer.

"You lie!" said Sian, face pale, his anger held no
longer.

Culain's iron sword tore from its sheath, slashing at

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

107

Kiaran. The elf s shield leaped to block it. Sian drew his
own blade and spurred toward Culain.

"Sian! NO!" shouted Kiaran. The men of Clan Cor-
mac shouted their battle cry, and on the hill above, the
elves bent their bows.

As Sian and Culain met with a clash of wood and
steel, Conn whipped the elvish blade from its scabbard
and rode for Kiaran.

"Conn!" the elf shouted, wheeling his horse to flee,
sword still at his side. Conn drove his mount against the
other, and his sword flashed down in a screaming arc, to
cleave through flesh and bone.

The Lord of the Elfmounds toppled from his horse,
his skull split to the chin.

The men of Clann Cormac were fleeing. Elves
launched flight after flight of pitiless arrows in their
ranks. Culain cried out as Sian drove the elf-blade
through his wrist, and the heavy iron sword fell from his
grasp. Conn saw his brother turn his horse and flee,
blood flowing from his wrist.

Sian made no move to pursue, nor did any elf-bolt
streak from the hill. The elves were silent, unmoving.
Conn felt Sian's eyes upon him. Kiaran's blood dripped
from Conn's sword. There was a crashing of hooves, and
Sian's horse drove into his own, and as he reeled, a
hand gripped his sword arm, and wrested the blade from
his grasp.

The elf-horse sprang away, and in Sian's hand the
bright blade from the Elfmound shone in the sun, and
trapped Conn's eye.

"This blade was given in token of Brotherhood!" cried
Sian. "You have stained the sword with a brother's
blood! Do you still wish the sword?"

"Give me back my sword!"

"Yours?" called Sian. "No longer! You must take it
back. As with it you brought death, so to you shall it
bring death! The wolves shall gnaw your bones!"

He waved the sword above his head. Conn could not
take his eyes from its bright gleaming.

'And so—follow!" and the elf-steed whirled and fled
away toward the north.

108

Paul Edwin Zimmer

Conn pounded his horse's flanks and sped after the
gleaming blade.

On he rode, swift as the wind, yet the other was still
before him, gleaming sword held high. But it was no
longer Sian who rode there, but Kiaran; and Conn could
see blood running out of the great cleft in his skull.

The ground rolled away beneath frantically pounding
hooves, but the rider ahead was no nearer. Conn's horse
faltered, but he whipped it on without mercy, his eyes
fixed on the sword. Still the other fled, and could not
be overtaken.

The rider seemed to waver, the light of the blade to
flicker and dim. It could not vanish! He would not allow
it to elude him that way! He fixed his eyes firmly upon
the fading phantom, willing it to remain. He could not
gain on it, but it wavered no longer.

After a time he became aware of a dim shape riding
beside him in the darkness. Turning, he saw Sian, his
horse matching Conn's stride for stride.

"Stop him! Turn him back!" he seemed to hear Eth-
brien's voice crying in anguish, could almost see her red
lips moving. . . .

"Conn!" shouted the figure at his side, but he did
not turn.

"Sian, take it off him!" He heard her voice again, but
could not find its source. "Take the spell off him and
turn him back!"

"/ have taken it off!" the elf cried, despair in his voice.
"But he won't turn back! It's from his own mind now—
Conn! Can't you hear me, man?" Conn did not answer,
but slipped one of his daggers from its sheath.

"It's your death, man! Can't you see there's nothing
there?"

The thing seemed nearer now. He might catch it if
they left him.

"Conn! The sword isn't there! It's an illusion I put on
you! Leave it! Turn away!" He reached out, and his
hand closed on Conn's arm.

Whirling in the saddle, Conn slashed at the other's
wrist. The elf drew back barely in time. Conn lashed the
horse on, but Sian kept pace.

"Can't your spells turn him back?" Ethbrien cried. A

WOMAN OF THE ELFMOUNDS

109

shape rose up, tall as a tree. Conn drove his horse
straight toward it, and it broke and vanished before him.
An illusion, to draw him from his chase! They were try-
ing to draw him away from his pursuit of Kiaran, but he
would not let them. He must overtake the slain elf, kill
him again, and take back the sword. That was all that
mattered.

Sian was still at his side, riding knee to knee. Conn
slashed at him with his dirk, but he only darted his horse
to the side, out of reach, and then closed in again. It
was like striking at a bat in the darkness.

"Go!" the man croaked. "Leave me! Go!"

"Conn!" Ethbrien's voice came to him again. "Turn
back! Can't you see it's an illusion?" Her face rose into
his mind once more, but he fixed his eyes on the glowing
sword. Witch! Enchantress! Did she think to trap him
again? Lovely woman from the Elfmound, my heart flies
to you like a bird.

"Conn!" shouted Sian. "Turn back!"

He did not reply, did not so much as move his eyes.

"Conn!" her voice came again, but his eyes and mind
were fixed on the glittering sword.

The elf-horse whirled, and darted away into the night.

Elf-blade brandished high, the gleaming rider floated
before him. Conn's weary horse stumbled, breathing in
great gasps, but Conn drove it on. When the whip no
longer served to rouse it, he slipped his dirk from his
belt and slashed it across the withers.

Conn paid no heed to the flame-eyed shapes that
howled on the blood-trail behind him. Unmercifully he
drove on the screaming, blood-drenched horse, until it
lurched and fell, throwing him to the ground, and neither
blows nor curses could bring the dead beast to its feet.

Howling shapes came dripping-jawed over the moor,
but Conn staggered north, hands outstretched to grasp
the bright blade that floated always just beyond his
reach.

A SOUL TO BE GAINED

by Blake Cahoon

Blake Gaboon's work has also appeared in Catfantastic,
edited by Andre Norton. She lives in Oak Park, Illinois.

He ran his finger down the dictionary page. "Elf," he
read. "A small mischievous mythological creature
known not to have a soul."

"Mmmph!" he snorted. "Okay, I'm short, I'll admit
that. Mischievous?" he shrugged. Okay, he did like to
pull pranks on his friends. And mythological—well, he
was hardly a myth. But come on, not to have a soul?
Come on, maybe he played too hard, partied too much,
felt a little lost even in the mortal world, but not have
a soul. That hurt.

He closed the dictionary with a thud; what he was
looking for wasn't in this book. Nor was it in the three
sets of encyclopedias, and many reference books on
mythological creatures and other such "imaginary" peo-
ple, that he had been searching through the past five
days.

What he was searching for was obviously not going to
be in human books.

Damn that O'Grady, anyway! Why did he have to
show up now? Now when he had just met someone who
just might become Mrs. Eric Frost.

Claire was dreamy, the girl—human girl—he had been
searching for all his life. Brown, thick hair that fell al-
most halfway down her back, large beautiful blue eyes,
as deep as the ocean. Rosy cheeks, a button nose and
two large, ample—

"Frost!" His boss, Peter Cole, sneaked up behind him
disturbing his thoughts. "Do you have the latest draw-
ings and ad copy on the cookie campaign?"

no

A SOUL TO BE GAINED

111

Eric jumped and scooped up the drawings of the cute
cookie elves and their cookie factory. "Right here," he
said. The boss snorted, grumbled something about it
being good work, and stomped off again, drawings and
copy in hand.

Despite Cole's attitude, Eric couldn't help but smile
and be proud. It was Eric who was the driving force
behind keeping the popular elf theme going when the
cookie company had almost scrapped the long-running
concept, a few years back.

But that was why Eric had been sent here—to keep
elfdom alive among the humans. Being in the advertising
game—part of the largest ad company in the world—
helped. Humans were constantly reminded of elves—
they were used to advertise breakfast cereal, cookies,
cellular phones, science-fiction television shows and in
children's cartoons. He was especially proud of the latest
round of elflike aliens on a popular science-fiction show.
His predecessor, who left seven years ago, had let them
virtually die out. But Eric had managed to bring the
popular aliens back. He had even set up a World Wide
Web page on elves in general. That would keep the myth
going and allow the gateway between the worlds to re-
main open.

But seven years had gone by too quickly, and when
O'Grady appeared on his doorstep five mornings ago
with the news that his seven years were up, Eric lost
his cool.

"What do you mean I have to go back? I've still got
work here to do. My ad campaigns have been really
successful! Didn't you guys like all those new Christmas
specials this past year? And what about the TV show?"

"You know the rules, Eric," O'Grady told him. The
man was slightly smaller than his own five-seven with
graying hair that just covered the elder elf's telltale
pointed ears. "Didn't you read the fine print?"

Okay, so he hadn't real all that elf legalese that was
on the contract when he had been drafted to come into
the human realm. Elf lawyers were worse than human
lawyers. Besides, he had been having too much fun in
his own elfin world. There was Cynthia, Lois, Margaret
and Betsy. He hadn't wanted to come to the human

112

Blake Cahoon

A SOUL TO BE GAMED

113

realm. But that was then; this was now. "Well, of course,
I did," he had lied to O'Grady. "But time passed so
quickly! And I found this girl that might—"

"A human girl?" O'Grady shook his head. "Trouble,
there," he said.

O'Grady had always frowned on the two races mixing.
But that was because O'Grady's human wife had broken
her special vow to him, and died as a result, and so he
had gone back to the elfin realm heartbroken and bitter.
But Eric's Claire could be trusted, he was sure of that.
"Look, O'Grady, I just need more time to win this girl
and then—"

"You think simply getting a human girl to love you
will allow you to stay here? That and all your advertis-
ing? It helps—but that's not the answer."

"Then what is? How do I stay? Others stay—I know
they do."

"Of course they do. If these silly humans only knew
how many of us were actually—but that doesn't matter,"
he said, with a sigh. "You have to find the answer your-
self. With no help from them. That's the rule."

Eric's philosophy had been that rules were meant to
be broken. But that was another thing that got him in
trouble. "So, what you're telling me is that I've got a
week to find the key to staying here or I get shipped
back?"

"That's right. You have seven days," O'Grady told
him, checking out his watch. "Now, excuse me, I have
others to check on before going home."

"Great," Eric moaned. How was he going to explain
this to Claire?

The same way he escaped everything else. He hadn't
explained it. Instead, he called some of his friends who
had found the key to staying longer.

"Michael, tell me, I beg you!" he pleaded to his actor
friend, whose newest TV series seemed to be as popular
as his time-travel movies and his last family sitcom show.

"Look, Eric, if I could, I would, you know that, man.
But I can't. I'd get sent back. And I have my wife and
kids to think about, not to mention my career."

Not to mention the money either, you lousy burn, Eric

thought and tried three more actor friends, two jockey
friends and even one politician.

"I can't say," his politician friend said in his heavy
Texas drawl. "If it's meant to be, you'll find the answer,
my friend."

"Thanks, anyway, Ross," Eric said and hung up.
Damn, he had to find the answer and quickly. He was
running out of time.

The little white elk stood on top of the scarred mahog-
any dresser. Claire saw that it was an old Christmas or-
nament, flocked with glitter that had fallen off over the
years. Still, the dark eyes held a sparkle and the painted
mouth seemed to smile at her.

She touched a finger to its white antlers. "I wonder
why this is just sitting out here?" she asked her friend,
Annie, who was inspecting a dismantled antique head-
board. It was Annie who had dragged her to the estate
sale that late April day. She had planned to spend the
day with her new boyfriend, Eric. But he had begged
off, saying he had lots of work to do at the office.

"What?" Annie said and rose from her squatting posi-
tion with the elasticity of a dancer.

Annie was small, blonde and had a cute little figure
that men drooled over. Claire envied her more than she
liked to realize. Claire had her mother's Irish figure and
her father's Spanish height. Short and fat, that was what
she always pictured herself as. "You don't want that old
thing!" Annie scoided her and snatched the little white
elk away, putting it on top of the bureau again. "It's
junk!" she declared in her loud Bronx manner. "Now
that piece over there, that's worth something!" she an-
nounced and marched over to a small antique table.

Claire looked wistfully at the small creature. "But it
reminded me of my childhood. My grandfather had
something like it," she said. But dutifully she followed
Annie, weaving around several pieces of furniture that
stood upon the lawn of the old estate. Above her the
sun was trying to peek out from threatening storm
clouds. She wondered how all the furniture would sur-
vive or if the estate planners had planned for rain.
"April showers bring May flowers," she said, out loud

114

Blake Cahoon

to no one in particular, since Annie had gone off on
another tangent.

But just as she said it, a flash of something white
caught her attention. She turned toward the flash and
found herself staring into the reflection of an old antique
gilt-framed mirror that was propped against a large
trunk. She stepped closer to the mirror, which was half
hidden among the other pieces of furniture, but whose
reflection showed the woods that surrounded the estate.

Claire glanced over at the woods, but there was noth-
ing white to be seen. Perhaps it had been a small crea-
ture—a rabbit, she thought, whose image had been
caught within the looking glass. Like Alice.

She looked again at the mirror and found that the
image in the mirror now took her breath away. For quite
clearly reflected was an almost double, but quite real
and alive version of the small white elk. Claire stared at
it, as it seemed to stare back at her, its eyes not dark, but
a most peculiar pinkish-red color that was quite startling.

Claire turned quickly to look at the woods where the
stag stood, but found the woods empty. She blinked, a
cold shiver running down her spine. She looked at the
mirror again and caught just a glimpse of the stag as it
bounded away into the reflected woods.

Again she looked into the real woods and saw
nothing.

"Annie!" she cried out and stumbled away from the
mirror, whose enchantment puzzled her and terrified her
all at the same time.

"What?" Annie said. "Are you still over here? Come
this way!" She began leading her friend away from the
mirror.

"But that mirror! The woods! I saw this white elk!"

"Are you still going on about that damn elk? It's junk,
I tell you! Come on, now! I see some real treasures over
here!" Annie told her and dragged her off.

Claire looked back, but the elk was gone. She let her-
self be dragged away, still feeling queasy and unsure.

That night she insisted on telling Eric about the elk,
despite the fact that he probably would think she was
crazy. But Eric was also into fantasy and science fiction,
and maybe he wouldn't treat her as a nut.

A SOUL TO BE GAINED	US

"It was just so weird, Eric! I know it sounds crazy,"
she told him over the phone, as he had begged off again
that night, much to her disappointment. Eric had been
a godsend to her.

Her editor at the romance publishing house where she
worked and cranked out novels under several pseud-
onyms had worried over Claire's writing. Her heroes had
become two-dimensional and lifeless. They had no soul.
Eric had changed that for her. He had become inspira-
tion for her and had renewed her interest not only in
her writing, but simply in living day to day.

She had met Eric at a Christmas party that past De-
cember. He was a most handsome man, his black hair
matched his dark bedroom eyes. His smile was infec-
tious. She looked back now at it as one of those en-
chanted evening moments, where their eyes met across
a crowded room. When he had asked her to dance that
night, it was magic, but she thought he was simply being
nice to her. Although he considered himself short, she
felt he was perfect in height to her five feet two.

When he had asked her out for a New Year's party,
she thought she had died and gone to heaven. He had
proved himself to be a gentleman, although he kept her
going with his practical jokes. He was forever scaring her
with plastic insects or embarrassing her with whoopee
cushions. But his interests in science fiction and fantasy
movies and television matched her own, and their four
months together so far had been unbelievably wonderful.

But lately he had become moody and sullen and she
worried about him. He had broken two dates with her
that week. Usually they were inseparable, even when he
was busy with an ad campaign and she with a deadline.
But this week, Eric had become distant. She had hoped
she might find something to give him from the antique
sale, since he seemed to have a fondness for the stuff,
but instead her strange experience made her wonder if
she wasn't going crazy. "But it's true, I don't know what
to think."

Eric had listened to Claire prattle on for close to
twenty minutes, his concentration on his dilemma, but
at the mention of the strange creature, his pointed ears
perked up. "A white elk? A stag, maybe? With pink

116

Blake Cahoon

eyes?" He recognized the creature immediately as one
from his own realm. What was it doing showing up now?
In front of his girlfriend? Could it be the key he was
seeking? "Where was that estate sale? Is it still open?"

Claire thought that was an unusual response, but she
said, "Well, it was in Westchester. I think it's still going
on through tomorrow. Why? You don't think I'm
crazy?"

Eric laughed, "No, sweetheart, I don't. I'm heading to
your place now. And tomorrow, we're checking out that
estate sale."

She was pleased to hear that he was coming over. But
puzzled over his strange reaction. "Eric? Why?"

"Never mind. Or maybe I might tell you tomorrow. I
don't know yet. You think that small white elk might
still be there?"

"I have no idea," she answered. "Eric, is there some-
thing you want to tell me?"

"Maybe. I'll know more tomorrow. Tonight, we cele-
brate!" he said and hung up.

Claire stared at the receiver, happy and confused all
at the same time.

The next morning they headed out to Westchester
under threatening skies. "I hope it doesn't rain,"
Claire said.

"I hope the little elk is there. And the mirror," Eric
said, his arm draped around her shoulder, fingering her
long hair.

"Is the mirror important, too?" she asked. Last night
she had tried to question him further, but it was point-
less. He wanted to celebrate, and she was afraid not to
let him. It was the first time he hadn't been moody in a
week, it seemed.

"It could be. Keep your fingers crossed," he said, with
a bright smile. "Why didn't you buy the elk, anyway?"

"Annie dragged me off. Said it was junk. I thought it
was pretty. It reminded me of a Christmas ornament my
grandfather had."

"A white elk Christmas ornament?" Eric asked.

"Yeah, he loved Christmas. He had all these little

A. SOUL TO BE GAINED

117

wooden Christmas toys that he'd carve for the neighbor-
hood kids."

"Your grandfather made toys?" Eric said, his mind
starting with the possibilities of the implications.

"Yeah, he made me a doll once and some other
things. But I remember the little elk because it was so
cute. I just wish he hadn't died so soon. I barely got to
know him," Claire said. "He died when I was seven."

Eric felt a chill go down his spine. There was that
damn seven number again. A well-known magical num-
ber, it was the maximum number of years elves could
stay in the human world unless they found a key to
remain. It was amazing what he had found out about his
own people in all those books he had read. He had chas-
tised himself more than once for not being a better stu-
dent when he had had a chance. Now he was paying
the price.

"Was he old?" he said.

"My grandmother once said he was old as the hills,"
Claire said, and directed him off the highway toward the
place of the antique sale. "She died the year before
him."

Eric nodded. "Did you go to his funeral?" he asked,
following up on a hunch that was itching the back of
his mind.

"No. Mother said he didn't like funerals," she said.
"He really loved my grandmother. Was heartbroken
when she died."

"What happened to the elk?"

Claire shrugged. "I don't know. I just remember that
little elk and that he really made me feel special." The
way Eric made her feel, but she didn't voice that.

Eric's itch remained, but he couldn't quite put his fin-
ger on it. He pulled the car into a gravel driveway with
huge iron gates. The estate itself sat on a wide expanse
of green lawn surrounded by woods. He parked the car
near a dozen or so others; then he took Claire's hand
and the two walked toward the small grouping of furni-
ture that was left. "Not much left," he noted.

"The bureau was over there," she said, leading the
way. "It's gone now, though."

118

Blake Cahoon

"Where was the mirror? And in what part of the
woods did you see the real elk?" he asked.

"The mirror was over there. It too seems to have dis-
appeared." She looked over to the woods and pointed.
"That's where I saw the elk's reflected image."

"Okay, wait here. See if you can't find that mirror,"
he said. He started toward the woods.

"Eric? Where are you going?" she called after him.
But he waved her away and sprinted up the small knoll,
toward the forest.

She watched him go and shook her head. Maybe this
was one of his pranks. April Fool's Day had been a great
day for him. His birthday had been the next day and
that was even more hilarious with fake dog poop and
rubber snakes. Sometimes she wondered why she put up
with it and him. He drove her crazy! But then he was
awfully good-looking and she was grateful to have such
a man pay attention to her. Usually the men in her life
were crass, uncouth jerks. She never thought handsome,
nice men like Eric would ever ask her out. So she put
up with his shenanigans and she had to admit, she was
falling in love with him.

She watched him go and then turned and went search-
ing for the mirror.

Eric searched the ground for any sign of the white
elk. First he searched the ground for prints and then in
the bushes for broken branches. But he wasn't seeing
anything. Not even with his elfin vision. Damn it, there
should be some sign! Discouraged, he sat down on the
grass and began to think about the possibility that he
was going to lose Claire, his career, and his life in the
mortal realm.

Claire looked behind several pieces of furniture, find-
ing no mirror. Finally, she went to one of the people in
charge of the estate and simply asked about the mirror
and the little white elk.

"Excuse me, but I was wondering—there was an old
antique mirror over by a large bureau yesterday. And
on the bureau was this little figurine of a white elk. Have
they been sold?"

A SOUL TO BE GAINED

119

The lady, dressed in her spring best, complete with
yellow frilly dress and hat, frowned in recall. "A mirror
and a figurine of a what?"

"An elk? A small white elk?" Claire asked. "I wanted
to see if they were sold."

The lady shook her head. "I don't remember any
white elk. Several mirrors have been sold. Let me check
my book," she said.

Claire waited as the woman dug out several books and
began to go through them. She looked toward the woods
and saw Eric sitting on the hill by the edge of the woods.
Just sitting and staring out into space. What was he
thinking? she wondered, and waved at him. But Eric
didn't seem to see her.

What was he going to do? Eric was thinking. He didn't
want to go back. He had found that he liked the mortal
world. It was new and exciting. Unlike the dreary world
of his home. That was the one thing humans hadn't got-
ten right. They were still under the mistaken belief that
fairyland was a paradise instead of simply a place of
enchantment. It was the enchantment that kept you
going, certainly not the atmosphere, which was as gray
as the day was today. In the books, the authors talked
of the ointment that elves put in humans' eyes when
brought across the realm. It kept the humans from
seeing their world as it really was—bleak and desolate.
Trees weren't green, they were brown or gray. Skies
weren't blue, they looked like Los Angeles on a smog-
alert day. Even elves were not handsome creatures—
instead they were ugly and misshapen. Without enchant-
ment the women were no treat to the eyes. Not like
Claire, who surprisingly thought herself ugly, but was
beautiful in his eyes.

No, mortals didn't realize how good they had it. Im-
mortal life wasn't what it was cracked up to be, espe-
cially if was in a place as dismal as the place he had
once called home.

"I don't want to go back. Don't make me go back!"
he declared out loud, a fist to the gray skies. "Please,
don't make me go back," he moaned, more softly, trying

120

Blake Cakooa

A SOUL TO BE GAINED

121

to hold back the overwhelming sadness he was beginning
to feel.

*       *       *

Claire was still watching him when he raised a fist to
the skies and shouted something. She was too distant to
hear it, but still puzzled over it. She frowned as she saw
the bright smile he wore earlier fade away. She was los-
ing him again. She turned to the lady. "Have you found
anything yet?" she asked, as if finding a stupid old mir-
ror and a figurine was going to make him happy again.
"They were right over there," she pointed to an area
where the grass was still flattened.

"Oh, those things. Actually, we moved those things
inside. It looked like it was going to rain," the lady said.
She pointed to an open door of the huge mansion. "Why
don't you go inside?"

She nodded and glanced over at Eric who looked so
forlorn, it was beginning to break her heart. Should she
go fetch him, she wondered? Or maybe she could find
the mirror and figurine and surprise him? After watching
him a minute more, she decided on the latter and
stepped inside.

Eric found himself staring up into space, daydreaming.
The day was overcast and gray, heavy with storm clouds,
he noted. Then he brought his gaze back down to the
lush green lawn that he hated to lose. But he found with
a start that the lawn had disappeared along with the
mansion. Instead a bleak black swamp greeted his eyes.

"What the—!" He jumped up and looked around at
the horrible surroundings. "NO!" he cried out, recogniz-
ing his home world. "No! This can't be! I have one
day left!"

"Then what are you doing out in that spot and at that
time?" a voice behind him said.

He whirled and found O'Grady. But the mortal world
veil had been lifted and he saw the fellow elf in his true
misshapen form. He looked down at his own hands and
saw the gnarled fingers of his former self. He put a hand
to his once handsome face and felt bumps and warts.
"No! No! I have one more day! I can't be taken back
now!" He was almost in tears.

"You haven't found the key yet," O'Grady told him.
"And I knew you were a lazy student, but surely after
reading all those books you know what today is and how
you got here."

Eric tried to think, but could only think about the
fact he was home again. And about Claire. "Claire! My
girlfriend! Did you see her? The pretty one I was with?"

"Of course, I saw her. I've been watching you. You
should know that," O'Grady said and shook his head.
"You don't learn, do you?"

Eric really wasn't listening. "I can't stay here," he was
protesting. "You've got to send me back. I still have one
day!" He looked around with utter revolt at the scenery
around. Never to see green again. Never to see Claire
again. "I can't leave Claire," he said. "I love her."

"Love her? Well, maybe you should tell her that,"
O'Grady said. "And I didn't bring you here. You did."

"I did? How? I would never—"

"Simple: you lay on a knoll, home of a fairy realm
underneath, on the first of May at noon. Then day-
dreamed. The portal was opened and you came through.
Silly humans do it all the time. Good thing, too, since
we have to keep our population going somehow."

"The portal?" Eric said, then slapped his bony fore-
head. "Damn! How could I be so stupid?"

"Yes, 1 was wondering the same thing when you ap-
peared early. But what's done is done." He started to
turn away.

"But wait! Can't I go back? The portal should still be
open!" Eric glanced at his watch out of habit. But it was
gone, along with his designer sports jacket. He was now
dressed in rags.

"Remember time flies here," O'Grady said. "It may
be too late," he told him and with a nasty chuckle
walked away.

Eric watched him go and then screamed at the top of
his lungs. "Noooooooooooo!" Then began to sob.

"Eric?" Claire called out, puzzled that he had disap-
peared off the hill. In her hand she held the antique
mirror and the white elk figurine. She had found them
inside and quickly snatched them both up and bought

122

Blake Cahoon

them. But when she came back outside, Eric had disap-
peared. So, she climbed the hill to see if he hadn't wan-
dered into the woods. "Eric?"

But although she found his footprints, there were no
signs of him. "Eric, where the hell did you go?" she
wondered. Maybe he had gone into the woods,
somehow.

The mirror was getting awkward, it was large and
clumsy and so she propped it up by a tree. With a sigh,
she stood looking around and found where he had been
sitting. "Okay, if this is another one of your pranks,"
she said out loud. But no one answered her. "Fine, I
can sit here and wait," she said and promptly sat down
on the grass, where moments ago he had been sitting.

She held up her white elk figurine and gently stroked
its soft flocked skin. The small stag seemed to smile at
her. "I want to give you to my boyfriend, Eric," she said
to the small creature. "He's a very nice fellow. Very
handsome. And giving. And although he can be a bit
mischievous at times, I love him."

Okay, she had finally admitted it. She loved him. Had
fallen in love with him. How could she help herself. He
made her feel beautiful. So alive. So wonderful.

"That's right, I love him. And I think he loves me,"
she told the creature. "I just wish he'd get back here,"
she said, and glanced around behind her, her eye catch-
ing the looking glass.

It was back, she saw in that instant and drew her
breath in, afraid to move.

From the reflection, the white elk with the pink eyes
stared at her. In her hand, she felt nothing, in the same
instant, but she was afraid to look or even blink in case
the enchantment disappeared. "You are real," she said,
barely above a whisper. "I wish Eric were here so I
couid show him," she said, staring at the enchanted
image.

The white elk's reflection stared back. Then the grace-
ful creature seemed to bow toward her and then look
away toward the woods.

Ever so carefully, she followed the gaze and looked
back at the woods. Eric was standing there, a look of

A SOUL TO BE GAINED

123

amazement on his handsome face. Tears stained his
cheeks.

"I'm back!" he shouted, sniffling. He looked around
wildly to see Claire sitting on the knoll. "No! Don't sit
there!" he screamed at her and ran to her, grabbed her
hands and pulled her to her feet, taking her quickly away
from the hill. Then he hugged her to him. "Oh, God, I
love you! I don't ever want to leave you again, and I
don't want to ever go back there again!"

"Go back where?" Claire said, puzzled and delighted
to see him. "Did you wander into the woods?" she
asked. Then remembered the elk. "Oh, careful—the
white elk!" She turned but the real elk was gone. So,
was the figurine. "They're gone!" she said, seeing only
the mirror propped up by the tree. "They were here!"
she said.

"I don't care!" he said. "I just know I'm back. Let's
get out of here," he said and led her away from the
woods.

"But the mirror!" she told him.

Already back on level ground, Eric looked back and
saw the mirror. In it was O'Grady's reflection along with
that of the white elk's. For a moment, he panicked, but
O'Grady's voice came to him, carried on the wind.

"You found the key. With a little help. Good luck to
you and your new bride," he said.

"Thank you," Eric said back, now sure that O'Grady
was once Claire's toy-making grandfather, teaching him
how to be human. He turned toward Claire. "Leave the
mirror. It's a prankster's tool and I'm through with that
stuff. Please, will you marry me?"

Puzzled beyond belief, she wondered if she was ever
going to learn the truth about this day and decided she
didn't need to know. "Yes," she answered. "I love you,
too," she said and kissed her prince.

He kissed her back, then took her hand in his, wiped
the last of the tears from his eyes and began their jour-
ney home, feeling wonderfully alive and very happy to
be in the mortal world.

Elf, he might still be, but now he was certain not only
had he found his soulmate, but his own soul as well.

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

by Brooks Peck

In addition to being an author, Brooks Peck is the associate
publisher of Science Fiction Weekly, a review magazine on
the World Wide Web. His short fiction also appears in Fu-
ture Net, and he has just completed his first novel.

Before a battle, Prince Gullfoss ate enough for
three elves or more. Although his generals com-
plained it would slow him down, in this one
area he ignored their advice. This is what he
usually ate, in part: the grilled shank of an elk, four or
five roasted potatoes, a pitcher of white ale, a loaf of
thick-crusted bread, a sparrow or chipmunk pie de-
pending on the season, a few bowls of glimmerberries,
and a glass of great-grandfather Holmur's shadow wine.
On the fifth day of the week of Turning Moss, Gull-
foss needed every bite. Instead of the anticipated skir-
mish, the kobolds mounted an all-out attack on the town
of Blue Dell on the southeastern border. After two
hours the situation looked grim. Outnumbered, Gullfoss'
troops had been forced to retreat from the fields to the
town walls. All of the grain silos burned, each a roaring
tower of black smoke. Gullfoss watched through a glass
steadied on the shoulder of an archer as a Steam Man,
five stories tall, crashed through the trees. He felt a wave
of unease ripple through the elvish troops. "Stay to-
gether," he called. Most of the remaining elves stood in
a ragged mass before the town gate. "That's it," Gullfoss
murmured. "Come and get us." He glanced at the cov-
ered pit fifty yards in front of the gate. It looked utterly
obvious to him, and he was no great woodsman.

The Steam Man lurched onward. Painted with black-
and-red stripes in the likeness of some kobold god, its

124

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

125

spiked fists could lash out and break a stone wall. Smoke
puffed from its ears, and it eyes, covered with metal foil,
shone with an unearthly light. Kobold warriors stood
ready on its hips, shoulders, and head. It stepped closer,
almost to the pit. The next step should do it. At last it
brought its left leg down, but a little short, so it landed
just at the edge of the pit. The elves groaned and Gull-
foss snarled. Then the ground under the Steam Man's
foot collapsed sideways into the pit, and it dropped heav-
ily to its right knee, groaning and hissing.

Gullfoss raised Bitter, his father's great sword.
"Now!" he yelled. The elves charged. Archers on the
walls stood and released a volley of arrows to rain on
the Steam Man, pinning the kobold shooters inside while
the elves closed in. In the lead, Gullfoss whirled Bitter
in a sweeping arc that carved open a wide gash in the
Steam Man's leg. Old magic filled Bitter. No armor or
shield could withstand its blow. With Bitter in hand,
King Ingolfer had broken the siege of Daleur. Some said
that Bitter alone kept the Elf Lands secure.

While the other elves scaled the Steam Man, chanting
war songs, Gullfoss attacked the metal again and again.
Soon he'd cut an opening big enough to crawl through,
and he wormed inside, finding a dim, echoing chamber.
Half-blind, he struck out at the tangle of cables and rods
around him. After some minutes of furious activity, the
Steam Man creaked terribly, shifting. Gullfoss scrambled
out yelling, "Away! Away!" The elves ran for the gate.
Steam poured from every crack and joint of the Man. It
toppled forward, and as it struck the ground, the boiler
exploded throwing fire, metal, and hot water in every
direction.

Amid the cheering, Gullfoss ran to his rooms and left
his armor and Bitter with his sister Eyri, shouting the
good news. For the rest of the waning afternoon he
helped bring in the wounded and contain the fires, hot
but happy work.

Back inside the gates he shouldered through the
throng of elves excitedly trading iron trinkets from the
battlefield. Many had already incorporated gears and
bolts into their clothes, hair, and cheeks. They pressed
around their Prince, shouting congratulations and

126

Brooks Peck

thanks. Gullfoss laughed, gripping hands and shoulders
as he moved toward the barracks. Finally he shut the
door firmly behind him. His sister Eyri sat at a desk
writing what would be a bold and exaggerated account
of the battle, but never exaggerated enough for him.

"Be sure to say the pitfall was my idea," Gullfoss said.

"That's what you said when you left. Anyway that
idea's older than Holmur."

"But not against Steam—" Gullfoss stared at a peg
on the wall above the washstand. "Where's Bitter?" he
asked.

His sister didn't look up. "How should I know?"

"It was herel" he shouted, and Eyri crushed the nib
of her pen as she jumped.

"What—"

"I brought the sword here after the battle and told
you to watch it, remember?"

Eyri looked at the peg now. "Oh. Yes."

Gullfoss1 eyes blazed so much that Eyri shrank back.
"Did you leave it alone?" he demanded.

"No, I haven't left."

"Did anyone come in?"

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?" he shouted.

"Yes I'm sure!" Eyri shouted back.

"It's Father's sword. The sword of the elfin people.
You were supposed to watch it."

"I was busy figuring out how to feed this town this
winter."

Gullfoss could only manage an enraged shriek in
reply. He burst from the rooms yelling, "Someone has
stolen my sword!"

Soon Blue Dell trembled as searchers thrashed
through the intertwined elfin homes with a racket that
equaled that of the battle. After three hours, Gullfoss'
First Light approached him, accompanied by the town's
chief Weaver. "My Prince," the Light said, dropping to
one knee and staring at the ground between them. "The
sword is not here, and no one saw who took it. I failed
my duty and will now leave the Elf Lands forever, if
that is sufficient punishment."

"Nonsense," Gullfoss said. "That would be a ridicu-

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

127

lous waste. You're wiser than I am, and I need your
advice. The sword has been stolen. Fine. We shall re-
trieve it."

The palace-tree of the elfin sovereigns, called Year's
Beginning, embraced a sienna peak that reared three
arrow flights over the forest. Its ancient trunk branched
across the rock and its limbs formed leafy towers, ram-
parts, and keeps. Normally there would have been a
small victory ceremony when Gullfoss and Eyri returned,
with Gullfoss holding Bitter high before him. Today they
entered quietly through a side gate where a sea of chan-
cellors and aides surrounded them.

"The plans for the Solstice festival must be
approved!"

"Sagross' seer has died, and a replacement must be
appointed!"

"The bards are threatening to strike!"

Gullfoss raised his voice. "Have you asked the King
about these matters?" Tense silence. A few aides
glanced at the door that led to the King's rooms, barred
from the inside for the last six months. Gullfoss was
immediately sorry he'd brought it up. "Fire the bards,
hire new ones, and speak to Eyri about the rest of it. I
have another problem that needs my attention." He
rushed to the stairs. Eyri sprinted after him.

"Good job. Now they think you're going mad, too."

"I'll fix things later. Right now I've got to find Bitter
before everyone hears it's gone, or there will be panic."

"And how will you do that?"

"/ don't know! I'm trying to think of something, but
it's not working."

Eyri squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Come on. I have
an idea."

She led him outside along a limb wide enough for
them to walk side by side, then inside the rock again,
upstairs past the nursery to a dim landing where the
stairs took a turn. "Auntie Myn's been rearranging the
rooms again," she said, placing her hand on the wall and
mumbling a High Tongue word. A door-sized stone
block turned to liquid and poured away through a grate
in the floor. "Wait." Eyri disappeared into a dark cham-

128

Brooks Peck

ber and Gullfoss heard wooden drawers being opened
and shut, clutter being shoved about, and curses.

Presently Eyri reemerged, holding a flat amulet on a
chain. She spoke again, and the rock flowed up out of
the grate, becoming solid. Outside on a shaded balcony
she showed him the amulet. It was ivory-colored, as soft
as vellum and very light. "Auntie told me this will only
work two more times, but this is an emergency."

"What does it do?" Gullfoss asked even as Eyri hung
it around his neck. He felt a dizzy sensation as if he
were water being poured from one cup to another, and
suddenly the world turned sharp. The Southern Moun-
tains, almost lost in haze, now appeared before him in
perfect detail. He could see insects crawling on the
ground all the way at the base of the palace. He
squawked, flapping feathered wings with a span as wide
as an adult elf. He raised his foot and saw sharp talons.
"Stupendous!" he cried.

"Now go search," Eyri commanded.

"At once." Without a second thought he leaped from
the balcony, dropping like an arrow until he spread his
new wings to carve the air and soar upward.

Gullfoss flew straight for the Kobold Hegemony,
reaching the border in only half a day. Then he slowed,
drifting over any camps or settlements he saw, scrutiniz-
ing them with his keen eyesight, but always heading for
Chokmek, the capital. The lands surrounding Chokmek
were a cacophony of engines. Half-sized Steam Slaves
pulled dozens of plows yoked together like a comb.
Trains emerged from tunnels like whales breaching,
paused to swallow and disgorge passengers, then dived
underground again. Closer to the iron wall that guarded
the main gate to the city, Gullfoss saw Naust, the ko-
bolds' King, walking in a group of kobolds each uglier
than the last. It looked like a war council, based on the
riot of beads and feathers the others wore. A group of
footmen with muskets followed at a discreet distance.
Soon the generals or whatever they were turned back to
the gate, but Naust walked on alone, watching the
farmers.

Gullfoss landed in a tree above the road just before

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

129

Naust, and the branches pitched heavily under his
weight. Naust wiped his eyes with warty fingers and
stared. "I thought our hunters would have taken any
bird like you in this area long ago. So perhaps you're
not really a bird. Tell me, bird, how go things with the
elves?"

"Not great," Gullfoss answered. "Have your people
stolen the sword Bitter?"

Naust laughed. "So direct. Indeed we have."

"Where is it?"

Naust laughed so hard his greasy hair bobbed. "I've
put it in Chokmek's deepest vault, eight miles under the
earth. No elf will ever see it again."

He seemed to Gullfoss on the verge of saying more.
"Unless?"

Naust's expression turned shifty, and he tried to hide
it, poorly. "Unless the Princess Eyri consents to marry
me and live here at Chokmek as my Queen."

"You're mad!" Gullfoss cried, leaping into the air. He
wanted to strike at Naust, but a squad of musketeers
jogged double-time down the road to meet their King.
Naust's freezing laughter followed him as he climbed
away.

Gullfoss returned to the elfin palace when dawn was
well advanced, alighting on the terrace outside Eyri's
rooms. He tapped the window with his beak, and soon
his sister opened the door for him. She drew the amulet
from around his neck, and after the weird pouring sensa-
tion passed, he said, "Well, then, get your wedding dress
my dear, and congratulations."

"Whom am I marrying?"

"Naust, highest among kobolds."

"What?"

"That's his ransom for Bitter—your lovely hand."
Gullfoss tried to take the hand in question, but Eyri
yanked it away and shoved him against a bookcase. She
had wrapped herself in a blanket when he woke her,
and now she pulled it tight around her neck and stood
up tall, looking absolutely regal despite her garb. "Marry
a kobold and live in his bottomless damp basements? I

130

Brooks Peck

wouldn't wish that on any elf, even you, I don't think.
What did you say? Did you tell him I would?"

"No!" Gullfoss protested.

"Because there's no way—no way—that I'm going
near that oaf. Damn the sword anyway." She stopped,
shocked at her own words. They looked at each other
in silence for a moment.

"We need to get that sword back," Gullfoss said.

"I know!" Eyri shouted. She grabbed a necklace from
a table and flung it at him. "Idiot! But he asks too
much."

Gullfoss caught the necklace, a strand of rubies set in
silver. "Pretty," he observed. Then, "Of course you're
not going to marry him. That's insane. But we have to
figure something out." Eyri stared, looking him up and
down as her smile grew. "What?" he asked.

She walked over and took the necklace. "Let me help
you with that," she said, turning him around. She held
the blanket together with her teeth while she clasped
the necklace around his neck. Then she stood back and
looked at him appraisingly. "Very nice."

"What?" her brother demanded again.

"You will marry him."

Aunt Myn laughed so hard when she finished her spell
that she wept, snorted, and finally collapsed in her chair,
startling the daybats that perched on it. She gave them
each a chestnut to calm them. "Aren't you darling," she
said to Gullfoss, passing him a hand mirror. In the glass
he saw his sister Eyri's face scowling. His clothes looked
ridiculously loose and rumpled on her small frame.

"These clothes feel like they fit fine—why do I look
that way?" He looked at Eyri and jumped. She appeared
like he normally did, though her dress looked ready to'
burst across his muscular shoulders.

"You're still you, dear," Aunt Myn said. "You appear'
to be each other, so of course those clothes don't look
like they fit." She tried to suppress another fit of mirth.;
"Oh, go change before I faint. We'll have to take yours'
in, Gull, and who knows how we'll manage a wedding:
dress big enough for you. Are you sure you're ready toi
make this kind of commitment?"

SLEIGHT OP BRIDE

131

"Auntie—" Gullfoss warned.

"No one will notice that the dress is actually so big?"
Eyri asked with Gullfoss' voice. The daybats spat nut-
shells onto the floor one after another.

"Oh, no, you'll look perfect. And let's get him some
ribbons and nice earrings. It's his special day, you
know."

King Naust pounded the table, silencing the outraged
gabble that filled the Cabinet. "No, I will not change my
mind. Prepare the greatest feast this city has ever seen;
invite every Governor and Lieutenant Governor. Also
send out a party to kidnap five of the best elfin cooks
they can find as well as some musicians."

Messengers ran to relay the orders. Around the great
table, Naust's generals looked at him with anger and
disbelief. Their maps and strategies sat before him
ignored.

"The sword is the icon of elfin strength," General
Skard said. "Stealing it was your greatest coup. Without
it they are seriously weakened, and in our hands, in the
hands of a great kobold warrior leading the battle
charge, think of the gains we could make."

Naust smiled, and the generals shifted nervously in
their chairs at the sight. "I have land in plenty," he said.
"I have land, cattle, orchards, mines, this fortress, wine
cellars, and treasuries. But I don't have a wife, and I
certainly never thought I'd have a wife as beautiful or
brilliant as Eyri. Now we must make ready because she
will be here soon."

Gullfoss and Eyri traveled for four days to the border,
accompanied by a handful of soldiers who pitched their
tent and cooked their meals. Across the border a kobold
contingent of equal number joined them, and together
they traveled another four days, deeper and deeper into
the kobolds' strange territories, until they reached Chok-
mek in the late afternoon. An honor guard met them at
the Gate of Three Wheels and fired a deafening salute
that made the Princess wince and the Prince yelp. The
Prince insisted they stop to wash and change out of their
travel clothes before presenting themselves, and the

132

Brooks Peck

Princess scowled deeply at this suggestion. She had said
little during the journey, but the soldiers noted that she
could be heard to mutter some outstanding swear words.

Finally Gullfoss and Eyri emerged from their tent. Al-
though he knew he looked fine, Gullfoss felt like a mess.
His wedding gown, pale green with living snowdrops
woven into the fabric, could not be fastened all the way
up the back, and Eyri had tied ribbons in painful knots
across his scalp so his hair stuck up in tufts like some
kind of shaman. He hated the veil worst of all because
he could hardly see through it and it scratched his face.
"I'm already disguised, why do I have to wear the damn
thing?" he demanded.

"Tradition," Eyri said.

"Tradition stinks."

She assured him he looked lovely. For her own part
Eyri had to stuff rags into his best boots to make them
fit, and she stumbled now and then, clutching his arm
suddenly for support. Gullfoss also walked slowly so his
bare feet wouldn't show. There had been no time to
construct proper shoes in his size, so he was forced to
do without.

A captain in a black-and-scarlet uniform greeted them
politely but with obvious disdain, and asked that the
elfin guards remain outside. He then led them through
a tunnel pierced with murder holes, beneath a portcullis
to an underground thoroughfare. Soldiers held traffic
back from the immediate area, but a good number of
other soldiers and citizens could be seen crossing the
tunnel at intersections farther down the tunnel. Iron
pipes, from a finger's width to a hand's breadth across,
lined the ceiling. Strange lamps lit the tunnel, sputtering
and throwing off sparks, painful to look at directly.

The captain led them to a single metal rail set in a
groove on which perched a sort of small open chariot
with little metal wheels. It took a moment for him to
make it understood that they were to sit inside the char-
iot. Once aboard, the captain threw some levers, turned
a knob, and the chariot trundled fifteen paces along its
track into a small chamber. "Could have walked that
far," Gullfoss said. Then the chamber floor suddenly
dropped and he grabbed the sides of the chariot, notic-

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

133

ing the captain's smirk. Bearing the chariot, the floor
moved deeper underground past a succession of tunnels
leading away, often full of kobolds crowding to have a
look at the visitors. The ceiling became lost in the dark
shaft above them. Finally the floor wobbled to a halt
and the captain maneuvered the chariot along another
tunnel that ended at a huge doorway made of ancient
dark wood banded with brass. Voices and rich cooking
smells drifted out.

"Here we go," Eyri said as they stepped inside. In-
stantly the Great Hall fell silent as dozens of kobold
officials, leaders, and members of society gaped at them.

The towering hall's ceiling was lost in darkness, but
stones or metal glittered up there, looking like stars.
Naust stood at the head table under long banners that
rippled from warm draughts off a fire in a great pit be-
hind him. He stared, too, and for an instant Gullfoss
feared the spell had broken, and everyone saw him for
what he was, a male erf in a dress and veil and bare feet.

Naust shook himself, then strode forward. "Welcome.
Welcome, elves. This is a great day and I am . . . I'm
so flattered that you've come." He offered Gullfoss his
arm and Gullfoss looked at it blankly until Eyri nudged
him. He allowed himself to be led across the hall under
the piercing glares of the kobolds, while Naust pro-
claimed, "Friends, I present to you the Princess Eyri,
my betrothed, and her brother Prince Gullfoss of the
elves." A few polite nods. "Let us feast and celebrate
this historic occasion."

Platters of food including a good number of elfin
dishes were brought to the table, but Gullfoss hardly
noticed. He looked out at his lifelong enemies, many of
whom made little effort to hide their scorn. Naust moved
from group to group, greeting them. The generals and
other soldiers, kobolds male and female alike whom he'd
met in battle, all watched his sister who wore his form
as she ate quietly. Gullfoss could see they found this elf
prince who ate so daintily and wiped his mouth with a
napkin very amusing. Finally a Commander named Odal
sauntered up. "Gullfoss! You've had your claws clipped,
but that doesn't mean we can't still fight."

"What do you mean?" Eyri asked, swallowing.

134

Brooks Peck

In answer Odal pulled up a bench opposite Eyri and
put his elbow on the table, hand up for wrestling.

Eyri looked around. "Now isn't a good time," she
said.

"Of course it is. What do you elves do at parties? Play
chess?" Waves of laughter from the room.

Eyri looked at Gullfoss. "Wrestle," he whispered, "or
you'll be a coward."

Reluctantly she held up her arm and Odal's knuckles
cracked as he gripped her hand. "Say when, Princess."

"Go," Gullfoss said. In a blink Odal slammed Eyri's
hand down into a plate, splashing sauce on both of them.
The assembled kobolds roared, and Odal stood, grinning
at his audience, and slapped Eyri on the shoulder. They
are laughing at me, Gullfoss thought. They think I'm a
weakling.

Eyri wanted to rub her sore elbow but didn't dare.
She couldn't see Gullfoss' expression behind his veil, but
his knuckles were white and his fists quivered. "I'll break
his arm," he muttered.

"Shut up."

"Couldn't you have even tried?"

"You're going to blow it," she whispered through a
smile. Ignoring his scowl, she looked around the Great
Hall, again surprised by its grace. A flat metal sculpture
covered much of one wall: a great deciduous tree of
interlocking brass pipes. Water flowed out the tops of
the pipes and trickled down the sculpture into a pool
carved in the floor so a steady, rainlike patter filled
the room.

Naust reappeared, his cheeks flushed, and sat heavily
next to Gullfoss. "You must be uncomfortable in that
thing," he said, reaching for the veil. "I would just like
to look at my bride." When he lifted the veil his eyes
went wide, and he sat back suddenly. "Your—your eyes.
What's wrong? Why do you look so fierce?"

Eyri clutched Gullfoss' arm before he could speak.
"It's because . . . because she's hardly slept these past
eight days, she was so eager for her wedding nigjit,"
she said.

Gullfoss nodded and began to eat. Apparently oblivi-

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

135

ous to Naust's watching, he made quick work of two
broiled fowls and a bowl of fruit tossed with anonymous
chunks of meat under a sweet glaze, as well as a whole
basket of rolls, calling twice for more ale. His attempts
to avoid his veil were not always successful, and soon
brown gravy stained its lower edge. Then he stood and
went to a table with a tray of small cakes and popped
them into his mouth whole, one by one until they were
gone. Back at the head table he asked for even more
ale, then pulled over a platter of fish he'd missed.

"Well," Naust said slowly. "She certainly has a good
appetite."

"She hardly ate during our entire journey here," Eyri
said loudly. "She was so eager for her wedding night."
Gullfoss grunted in agreement.

"Then we mustn't wait," Naust cried. "Call the priests,
but first bring forward the sword. Bring forward Bitter
to hallow my bride and may Korklish the Father hear
our marriage oath and give his blessing. You stand off
there, Gullfoss, you'll get it back outside the gates."

A soldier carried the sword to the head table, handling
it with more reverence than Gullfoss would have ex-
pected, and his heart leaped. The kobold King held Bit-
ter up for all to see while Eyri went down to stand a
little apart from the crowd that now pressed forward.
Naust laid the sword across Gullfoss' knees, and the
prince's heart thudded with excitement.

"Eyri," the King said, "I hope you are as happy today
as I am."

"Oh, I am," Gullfoss answered, gripping Bitter and
tearing off his veil with his other hand. "I'm overjoyed!"
He kicked back his chair, swung Bitter overhand and
struck Naust on the head with the flat of the blade. The
company screamed. "Steal my father's sword, will you,
you thieving, lurking kobolds?" He jumped onto the
table, upsetting tankards and bowls. "Blackmail my sis-
ter into marriage, will you?" An alert guard captain
rushed him with a carving knife, but Gullfoss parried the
swing and struck the captain's wrist, then shoved him
back with his foot. Glancing over, he saw that Eyri now
looked like herself, his best trousers and cloak hanging

136

Brooks Peck

loosely around her. His hands on Bitter were the normal,
hairy ones he was used to. Apparently he had over-
whelmed the illusion.

On the floor, Naust glared up at him with hate. "Gull-
foss!" he screamed. "You! You pig! I'll kill you!" Even
as he yelled, the hall filled with armed and armored ko-
bolds who shoved in between the guests. Bitter flashed
as Gullfoss beat them back. Some carried spears which
they thrust at him from a safe distance, but Gullfoss
smashed down on the poles, breaking off the heads.
Naust hurled cups, bottles, and heavy iron plates. Seeing
this, the Governors and officials joined in with whatever
was at hand, and Gullfoss suffered a rain of bones,
scraps, smoked fruit, and pastries. He concentrated on
avoiding the sharp or heavy items and soon became so
splattered he could barely see. He wiped jam from his
eyes and threw it back at the kobolds. His footing on
the greasy table became precarious, and the soldiers
moved closer on both sides. A quick youth darted in
with a spear and Gullfoss could only partly deflect the
blow. The spear opened a gash on his calf and he
slipped, falling to one knee. The kobolds cheered,
pressed closer.

This was turning ugly. "Can't you take a joke?" he
yelled.

Eyri watched the battle in dismay. Why hadn't that
idiot Gullfoss waited for a better chance? She had tried
to join him, but two soldiers grabbed her arms and held
her. Elf Prince or no, the kobolds outnumbered him.
She watched him slip a second time, then struggle up
again, sending a storm of blows all around him. Hair
and ribbons were plastered to his scalp with muck, his
dress was torn, but his eyes danced with power.

But he was going to be defeated. It was a matter of
time.

Eyri's captors paid more attention to the fight than to
her, and she gently dipped her hands into her pockets,
hoping to find a knife, an arrowhead, anything. Her fin-
gers touched a soft bundle which she drew out, glanc-
ing down.

Auntie Myn's amulet.

SLEIGHT OF BRIDE

137

That instant Eyri jerked her arms free, surprising the
soldiers, and yelled "Gullfoss!" Her brother looked up.
"Here!" She threw the amulet as the kobolds grabbed
her again, twisting her arms back painfully.

Gullfoss snatched the amulet from the air, looked at
it for a second, then slipped it around his neck. He be-
came a whirlwind of feathers and the kobold host cried
out again. Bitter clanged onto the table, but a second
later Gullfoss the eagle lifted the sword in his talons and
hauled it into the air. He carried it up to the top of the
hall, circled once over the upturned faces, laughing, then
streaked over to Eyri. "Catch!" he called, dropping Bit-
ter. She caught the sword by its handle just before it hit
the floor. Gullfoss descended, beating the kobolds back
with powerful strokes from his wings. "Climb on," he
said. Eyri scrambled on to his back, clutching the sword
in one hand and grasping him around the neck with her
free arm. He leaped up and she gasped as the hall and
guests shrank below her. Almost immediately Gullfoss
said, "Oh, no."

The doors to the Great Hall were shut.

Gullfoss flapped wildly to slow down and made a run-
ning, stumbling landing before the doors. The kobolds
surrounded them. "We're not finished yet," Gullfoss
hissed. "Get the amulet off me and I'll show them
fighting."

Then a voice yelled, "Stop!" The kobolds fell back
and Naust walked up to the elves. Sweat covered his
brow and face and an ugly welt had come up on his
forehead. "You broke your word," he said. "Eyri never
intended to marry."

"You stole Bitter," Gullfoss retorted as Eyri slipped
off his back.

The King pondered, then nodded. "I supposed it's one
deceit traded for another. I hope you'll forgive me," he
said to Eyri. "You see, I thought this was history."

"History?"

"We have a prophecy that says someday the elves and
kobolds will become one people, and that your beauty
will replace our ugliness, but our machines will replace
your magic. I thought I—we—were destined to fulfill
that prophecy."

138

Brooks Peck

Eyri looked around the beautiful Great Hall. These
kobolds, especially Naust, were not what she had ex-
pected. She thought about the elves at Blue Dell bracing
for a difficult winter. Peace would be a very good thing
for a great many people. "There are better ways to court
a woman," she said to Naust.

His face brightened. "Indeed. I'll think on that."

"Do that."

Naust's face brightened even more and he clapped his
hands. "Open the doors," he called. He turned to a cap-
tain, "Take them to their escorts and see them all safely
to the border. By the way—" he turned back. "May I
say, Prince Gullfoss, that you made a beautiful bride."

THE SHOEMAKER AND
THE ELVIS

by Lawrence Schimel

Lawrence Schimel is the coeditor of Tarot Fantastic and
The Fortune Tellers, among other projects. His stories ap-
pear in Dragon Fantastic, Cat Fantastic HI, Weird Tales
from Shakespeare, Phantoms of the Night, Return to Ava-
Ion, the Sword & Sorceress series, and many other antholo-
gies. Twenty-five years old, he lives in New York City,
where he writes and edits full-time.

We'd heard, of course, about that other shoemaker,
the one who'd found, upon waking, a set of shoes
already made upon his workbench. But who'd have
thought it might be true? Or that it could happen to
us? I wasn't even a shoemaker, really! I'm a podiatrist.
Sometimes I'll fashion orthopedic shoes, the whole she-
bang, but mostly I just make inserts for people to slip
into their sneakers. So what I can't figure out is: Why
me? But isn't that always the case when someone has
an encounter with the supernatural? Why me?

It was Jane who found them. She comes in earliest of
everyone, to put on the coffee machine and get the office
ready for the day's clients, to call and confirm people's
appointments. She's got a seven-year-old son, Eric, and
so she has to leave by three to pick him up from school.

"That's so cute, Dr. Katzman," Jane said to me by
way of greeting, while I was hanging up my coat. "Who's
got the Elvis fetish?"

"What Elvis fetish?" I asked her.

"You know, the blue suede shoes," she said.

"What blue suede shoes?" I asked her, I stuffed my
scarf into the sleeve of my jacket.

"The ones in Room 2."

I walked down the hall. I hadn't made any blue suede

139

140

Lawrence Schimel

shoes. I hadn't had a call for a pair of shoes in weeks—
not until Mrs. Parker came in yesterday. And she cer-
tainly didn't request blue suede shoes, not that I'd have
made them for her even if she had. Her arches have
fallen so deeply that inserts wouldn't suffice: she practi-
cally needed a special set of shoes with full-scale
scaffolding.

"What happened to Mrs. Parker's shoes?" I cried.

There, on the counter, right where I'd left the soles
of Mrs. Parker's special full-scale support shoes to set
and dry overnight before fashioning them into footwear
wide enough for her splayed toes to fit into, was a pair
of blue suede shoes.

"Didn't you make those for her?" Jane asked me,
coming into the room behind me. She lifted a shoe and
felt inside. "Feels just like Mrs. Parker's prescription
to me."

I picked up the other shoe and felt inside.

"You're right, it does feel like the right prescription.
But I didn't make them."

"Well, it couldn't have been Nancy," Jane said.

Nancy was my other secretary. She wasn't the swiftest
of girls, but she did try. She was my wife's niece, so I
couldn't fire her. We just tried to keep her away from
anything easily damaged, like the computer. Or the fil-
ing. Or the vacuum. Or—well, anything remotely
mechanical.

"Who else could it have been?" I said. "You know
how she's totally gone for Elvis." Another of Nancy's
endearing charms. "Although I can't fathom why she'd
have done something like this," I continued.

"Well, that's exactly why it must have been her: You
can't fathom why. That's Nancy for you." Jane has been
nagging me to hire someone else, someone competent
that is, to help her with all the work. Preferably getting
rid of the dead weight while I was at it.

"I don't understand how it could've been Nancy,
though," I said, ignoring the problem of Jane's dissatis-
faction for the moment. "We don't even carry blue
suede. What could she have made them from? And how
would she have made them? Nancy doesn't know how

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

141

to listen to the answering machine, let alone sew a com-
plicated pair of orthopedic shoes like this."

"What are you proposing it was, then," Jane asked,
"elves in the middle of the night?"

"I'd believe elves made this a lot sooner than I would
Nancy did. Elves, or maybe Elvis." I almost waffled the
joke trying to get the accents over the right syllables.

Jane groaned. "I'll call the Weekly World News. 'Elvis
Sighted in Podiatrist's Office!' 'Blue Suede Shoes Found
to Cause Pigeon Toe!' And I get to keep half the
money." She smiled and disappeared back to the front
desk to begin calling. Clients, that is, not the Weekly
World News.

I went to the phones as well. I explained to Mrs. Par-
ker that there might be a slight delay in her shoes, unless
she didn't mind blue suede. The wholesaler, I lied, had
sent us a shipment of blue suede instead of ordinary
brown leather, and it would be weeks before they could
send us a replacement shipment.

Mrs. Parker said she didn't care what color they were
so long as her feet stopped hurting.

Nonetheless, I felt the tip of my nose when I hung up,
just to make sure it hadn't grown any from my white
lie. I mean, if elves—or Elvtses—were making shoes in
the middle of the night, why not the rest of all those old
stories? I couldn't believe it was Nancy, and I didn't
have any other ideas.

Nancy, when she showed up at one, was totally igno-
rant. Of the shoes, as well, I mean.

"Dr. Katzman!" Nancy squealed when I showed her
the blue suedes in Room 2. "You've made a pair of
Elvis shoes!"

"I told you so," Jane and I both sighed together.

I was totally baffled by the shoes. Who had made
them? And from what material? They obviously used
the soles that I had left to set and dry, they'd been
molded off Mrs. Parker's feet. I'd done them myself, I
knew the warped shape of those fallen arches. But every-
thing else had been changed. And all the materials I'd
used, or left ready to be used, were gone.

At least Mrs. Parker didn't mind about the color, so

142

Lawrence Schlmet

I wasn't out the time or anything. And they were well-
crafted shoes, it seemed. If a bit ... unfashionable.

Before Jane left, I laid out a new pair of soles in
Room 3. I locked the door, took the key off my keyring
and handed it to her. "Don't open it tomorrow until I
get here," I told her. "I have no way of getting in there
without you, now, and I want to be there tomorrow
when we prove that it wasn't elves."

I was late getting to the office, despite my best efforts.
I was eager to find out what happened with the soles I'd
left out, but the Long Island Expressway was doing its
imitation of a parking lot that morning, and I was almost
an hour late by the time I got there. The traffic didn't
seem to have caught any of the morning's clients, who
were thick as fleas in the waiting room, and between
them and the phone ringing off the hook, Jane and I
didn't get a chance to unlock Room 3 until Nancy had
shown up and could cover the phones and the front desk
while Jane and I had the unveiling. We both stood hesi-
tantly before the door for a few moments, just staring
at it, neither of us saying a word. But our doubt and
disbelief was quite apparent in our expressions.

"Everything is going to be exactly as we left it," I
said, as Jane handed me the key and I opened the door.
Still, I couldn't make myself turn the knob, nervous
about what I might find, the possibility that I was wrong.

"Until you open the door," Jane said, "both possibilit-
ies will continue to exist. On the other side there are
either a pair of soles, like we'd left them, or a pair of
finished shoes, fashioned by supernatural or other
means. We must open the door and find out which sce-
nario is real." She paused for breath. "You open the
door and I'll turn on the lights, okay?"

i nodded, unable to find my voice, and flung open the
door. Jane reached around the doorjamb and flicked the
light switch. Together, we stared in through the open
door.

There, on the counter, was a new pair of blue suede
shoes, obviously different than the first pair from yester-
day. (These were easily four sizes smaller.)

"Now what?" I asked.

"I don't know which is more preposterous," Jane said,

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

143

"the fact that elves are real, or that we've had an Elvis
sighting right here in our office."

"Not a confirmed Elvis sighting," I reminded her. We
went out into the hallway, closing the door behind us.
But out of sight, this mystery was hardly out of mind.
"What," I wondered aloud, "are we supposed to do,
according to the fairy tale?"

I didn't remember the story too well. But Jane's got
a seven-year-old son, so she'd read it more recently than
any of the rest of us.

"I think this means the King wants a pair of shoes for
himself," Jane said. "That's what happens in the story,
the elves are all barefoot and naked."

"Naked! I missed a chance of seeing Elvis naked!" I
caught Nancy as she swooned. Jane rushed and got her
a paper cup of water. I was pleased to see her coming
to Nancy's rescue, despite her dislike for the girl.

"I'm all right, I think," Nancy declared. "But I'm not
leaving this office until I get a sight of him tonight!"

Jane looked at me. "I'm kind of curious, myself," she
said. "To see this story through to the end. In the fairy
tale, the shoemaker and his wife make clothes and tiny
shoes for the elves for Christmas. And the elves never
come back."

"1 guess we can't really call an exterminator, so it may
just come to that. If it really is elves. Or Elvis. I admit
I am curious myself, to find out for sure."

"It's agreed then," Jane said.

"What fun!" Nancy cried. "An Elvis stakeout!"

Jane and I both sighed, and went back to work.

Jane called around and arranged for Eric to stay at
his friend Peter's house that night. I had a bit more
trouble convincing my wife.

"You're staying late at work," my wife said with this
certain tone in her voice. "With your secretary."

"I'm hurt that you even suggest such a thing," I told
her. "Besides, Nancy will be here, too."

"You're staying late at work," my wife repeated in
that same tone, though her voice had gone up an octave,
"with both of your secretaries!"

"Someone's been breaking into the office," I ex-
plained exasperatedly. "Nancy thinks it's Elvis, so she

144

Lawrence Schimcl

wants to stay and see him. Speaking of which, we really
need to talk about Nancy one of these days."

"Don't change the subject," my wife said. "Are you
having an affair with my niece or your secretary or both
of them at once?"

I sighed. "Why don't you come spend a boring night
staking out the office with us, and you'll see that I am
not having an affair with my secretary, who has a seven-
year-old son fercrissake, or," and here I dropped my
voice for the next three words, "your brainless niece!"

Adele showed up promptly at 6:30 when the office
closed. I treated us all to Chinese food. We rushed back
because we didn't know when he'd show up. I'd left a
pair of soles on the counter in Room 1 this time, just to
keep our midnight visitor(s) on his or their toes. And
also because Room 1 had a supply closet big enough to
fit four people.

We hid inside, peeking through the slats every now
and again to see if he'd arrived yet. Well, Jane and I only
occasionally peered through; Nancy was riveted, peeping
through the entire time.

Adele complained that she was bored.

"I told you to stay home," I told her.

"I thought you were having an affair. I mean, you
were giving me all the right cues. What was I supposed
to do?"

"An affair?" Jane said, with this certain tone to her
voice. Even with no lights on, I just knew she was
sneering. Adele knew it, too, and I could feel her relax
even further. Seeing Nancy over dinner had been reas-
surance enough to dismiss that worry.

"Hush," Nancy reminded us, "who knows when he'll
show up."

Adele, Jane, and I all sighed. Nancy really thought
she was going to see the King.

I didn't know what I thought we would see. Although
I guess I thought we'd see something. Or rather, some-
one. Otherwise I wouldn't have been spending a night
squatting in a supply closet with my secretary, my wife,
and her brainless, Elvis-sick niece.

Adele sat next to me on the floor and leaned against
my shoulder. Pretty soon she was snoring. I wanted to

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

14S

take a nap myself, but only my leg fell asleep. I was
afraid I'd miss all the action, if there was to be any, and
I didn't want to have to go through all this bother and
discomfort a second time.

After what seemed like hours, Nancy began to sort of
squeal—her attempt to keep from shouting in excite-
ment. I was proud of her for even making an attempt.

There was a humming and some fumbling outside the
closet. Something clattered to the floor. Someone cursed.
And then the lights went on in the room.

The four of us peeked through the lats.

It was the King all right. He hadn't changed a bit. He
looked exactly as young as in the last known photos of
him, as if decades had not passed.

Well, one thing was different, or at least I'd never
noticed it before.

"Look at that," I whispered. "He's worn clear through
the insides of his soles."

"Oh, the poor thing," Nancy said aloud, and she
rushed forward from our hiding spot into the room.

If Elvis was surprised to find her there, he didn't
show it.

"Ya gotta help me, Mama." he drawled. "I'm caught
in a trap, I can't get out. La belle dame sans merci hath
me in thrall," he explained.

Nancy, of course, would do anything he asked of her.

"La Belle Dumb is in thrall, too," Jane sighed, and
followed Nancy out of our hiding spot to rescue her.
Once again, I was proud to see her coming to the aid of
my wife's brainless niece, despite her dislike of the girl.

And Jane had hit on something profound, I thought,
remembering my Keats from the token English class
they made us take in med school. I marveled at the
similarity of Elvis to the Queen of Elfiand, trapping un-
suspecting mortals in his glamour, keeping them oblivi-
ous to everything but himself, and leaving them senseless
because of him.

But I didn't want to miss out on all the action, so I
set aside these musings for later and revealed myself as
well. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"My feet," the King moaned.

"Yes, I see," I murmured, soothingly. "Why don't you

146

Lawrence Schimel

sit up there while I take a look," I said. Elvis climbed
onto the padded table and drummed his heels against
the drawers.

"I just can't stop dancing," he continued. "It's all the
Queen's fault. She makes me dance. But I don't got the
same stamina these elves do."

Suddenly, at the same moment, it sank home to Jane
and me what he'd said earlier. La belle dame, the Queen
of Elfland, had the King in thrall, not the other way
around as I'd earlier thought Jane had meant. At last,
the mystery of Eivis1 disappearance was solved! It was
no wonder he looked as young and unchanged as ever;
I remembered this story, still, and according to the poem
time moved differently between the worlds. Seven years
would pass the real world, and only a day would have
gone by in the fairy kingdom.

"The Enquirer will never believe this," Jane muttered.
"But maybe Spielberg."

"For seven years, I am her slave," the King was say-
ing, as I knelt down before him and unlaced his worn-
through blue suede shoes.

"You poor thing!" Nancy cried. Adele took her
niece's arm, as much to quiet her and prevent her from
doing anything rash as to calch the girl should she
faint again.

I pulled Elvis' socks off. His feet gave off that particu-
lar fungal odor.

"You need to change your shoes more often," I told
him. I was afraid Nancy might do me damage if I said
his feet stank. "Rotate them."

"I can only do what she wants me to. And she always
wants me to sing and shake my hips for her. I'm so tired.
And my feet! Just look at my shoes! You've got to help
me, Doctor."

"Yes, I can see that," I said.

"You've got to help him!" Nancy cried.

"How is it you could come here?" Jane asked. My
ever-practical Jane. I don't know what I'd do without
her. The whole office would fall apart without her. I
didn't think I had to worry until Eric was old enough to
go off to college, but I couldn't help thinking how I
really needed to make sure I'd hired someone else.

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

147

someone she'd have trained, before she left me. She was
just too smart to stay my secretary for long—she de-
served more from life.

"It's because of the stories," Elvis said. "The Queen's
cast a spell on me, and it makes me more or less an elf
while I'm in her thrall. Making shoes is one of the things
Elves do, and in return the mortals will make a pair of
shoes for us. Please, Doctor, I'm begging you, make me
a pair of shoes that will make my feet stop hurting."

I knelt down before the King's feet again, and began
examining his soles. I couldn't help feeling like Mary
Magdalene washing the feet of Christ. I'd have to tell
Jane the analogy, I thought—but not right then. The
mood was wrong, and I wasn't sure either Nancy or my
wife would catch the irony of it all. Well, I knew Nancy
wouldn't. I held my tongue, and instead poked and prod-
ded and measured his feet.

"Yes," I murmured. "Pronating. Hmmm."

"Can you help me?" the King begged, in his love-me-
tender voice.

"I think I have a solution," I said, and began assem-
bling supplies to take a casting. A silence settled over
the room as I worked. Jane immediately fell into helping
me, handing me the things I needed as I needed them.
Nancy all but vibrated with anxiety and erotic tension;
she looked as though she might, at any moment, leap
onto the table and tear Elvis' sequined clothes from him.
Adele just watched, holding onto her niece with a quiet
but firm grip. Elvis began to hum.

Jane and I worked. I poured the soles. "We're not
going to have time for these to set," I warned. "They
need a full twenty-four hours before I can make them
into shoes. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

Nancy made that not-quite-squealing sound again.

"Let me see them," Elvis said. He hoped down off
the table, and stood next to me. He looked at them,
holding them in his hands as he hummed along. Then
he handed them back to me. "They'll be fine like that,"
he said.

They had dried already.

I didn't question it. So many strange things were hap-
pening already, this seemed like nothing special.

148

Lawrence Sckimel

THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVIS

149

The normalcy of sewing a pair of shoes was the only
thing that made sense. The fact that they were for Elvis
seemed inconsequential. These were just another pair of
tired feet that needed to be supported. They just hap-
pened to belong to one of the most famous men in his-
tory, a man who was surrounded by a mystery that we'd
just unraveled.

Not that anyone would believe us, if we told them. I
didn't believe it myself.

But I made the shoes anyway, even not believing what
was going on. There had to be some sort of rational
explanation, I thought, and one day it would all be-
come clear.

Elvis put his socks back on, and tried the shoes on.
"They're perfect," he said, shuffling a step or two.

The King was so happy not to have his feet hurting
him, he turned and kissed Nancy, who was standing
nearest to him.

Nancy fainted.

No one was there to catch her, and she banged her
head against the edge of the counter. I bent over her,
and checked to see if she was all right. A streak of red
stained the linoleum. Jane ran to fetch bandages. Adele
went to call an ambulance.

"Where's Elvis?" Nancy cried, when she opened her
eyes as we were holding a gauze bandage to the back
of her skull.

"Elvis?" I asked. I looked around me. In the commo-
tion, he'd disappeared. Back to Elfland, or wherever
he'd come from. However he'd gotten here. I had to
wonder if he'd ever been there, and didn't know which
questioned my sanity more. And as I caught Jane's eye,
I knew she was wondering how much we should tell
Nancy, if we'd ever live down the true story.

"You've hit your head, honey," Jane said. "Elvis has
been missing for years. He's probably dead by now."

"He can't be dead!" Nancy cried. "1 saw him, I swear
I saw him. You were all here. He kissed me!" Her eye-
lids fluttered again, and she sort of hugged herself.

"It was just a dream," Jane explained, patiently.
"From when you hit your head."

n

*••

Adele came back in. "The ambulance is on its way,"
she said.

"Just a dream," Nancy whispered. You could see her
deflate. "It all seemed so real."

It all seemed so real. That's how I felt, too. It seemed
so real, but how could it be true? I'd seen him with my
own two eyes, I'd touched his naked soles with my own
two hands, I'd made blue suede shoes especially for him,
shoes that would stand up to the supernatural pounding
of elfin dances.

No one spoke while we waited for the ambulance to
show up. Adele went with her niece to the hospital, and
I promised to follow her there once Jane and I had had
a chance to clean up and close down the office.

"What will we tell people?" I asked.

"I don't know that we can tell people. Who'd believe
us? I don't believe it, myself, and I was there. But at
least we got to the end of the story, brought this all to
some sort of conclusion."

"I guess," I said, not quite sure I felt a sense of clo-
sure. I would never look at an Elvis on velvet painting
the same way again, I knew, and every time I heard one
of his songs, I'd always remember the feel of his feet
beneath my hands. "I just feel there are so many myster-
ies left unsolved. Like, are all those other fairy tales
true, as well? And especially: Why me? But I guess we'll
never find out."

Jane took the casting. "All I know," she said, "is that
this is going to put Eric through college."

I could hardly argue with that.

THE MARBLE KING

by Gary A. Braunbeck

Gary A. Braunbeck has sold over 65 short stories to various
mystery, suspense, science fiction, fantasy, and horror mar-
kets. His latest fiction also appears in Future Net and Care-
less Whispers. His first story collection, Things Left Behind,
is scheduled for hardcover release this year. He has been
a full-time writer since 1992, and lives in Columbus, Ohio.

Cfquatting on my chest, the dwarf-thing pointed a bony
l3finger at me and said, "No clapperdogeon, angler, or
shivering-jemmy me, I've come this eve to tell ye that your
squabby, fancy-bloke shaver named Johnny needs our
help; them liver-faced bullyraggers what's been givin' jes-
sie to 'im 's well in need of a sound batty fang themselves,
and 'tis time for thee and me to knife it."

It was only later, after I'd learned some small pan of
his language, that I understood exactly what he was say-
ing: that he was not a thief, beggar, or con artist, and had
come to tell me, with an honest heart and in an honest
voice, it was high time the boys who'd been picking on
my best friend got a taste of their own medicine so they'd
stop terrorizing Johnny.

He thrust out his other, fisted hand and opened his
fingers. In the center of his palm was the most beautiful
marble I had ever seen; perfectly rounded and smooth,
glimmering white, red- and blue-veined, it seemed to say:
Use me and you'll never again lose a game, ever, for I
am the most magical of marbles.

"W-who are you?" I whispered.

"I be the Marble King, boy."

That was the fall of my ninth year, and before that
season was over, there was going to be a lot of needless

ISO

THE MARBLE KING

151

suffering—something I've since concluded is part and
parcel of childhood.

When we were both eight years old, my best friend
Johnny Sawyer and I went Christmas shopping with my
mother. We were looking at model car kits in the toy
department of one of the countless stores we'd visited
that day when we overheard two girls talking an aisle
over. The older one had obviously been burdened with
watching her little sister while Mom or Dad bought gifts
elsewhere in the store. The younger girl was upset be-
cause her sister was complaining about how stupid
Christmas was.

"You better watch out," said the younger girl, "or
Santa'11 put coal in your stocking."

"You are such a child," snapped her sister. "There's
no such thing as Santa Claus!"

"You don't believe in Santa?"

"No!"

The younger girl laughed at her sister who'd lost touch
with the Miracle. "Well, that's your problem."

I was thinking about her as I got out of my car at 7:00
p.m. and headed for the entrance to the Quiet People's
Place, a little diner three blocks north of the Altman
Museum in downtown Cedar Hill. The majority of the
People's staff is composed of handicapped adults and
teenagers; its owner, Dave Boggs (imagine Old King
Cole without the beard and you'll have some idea of
this marvelous, exuberantly cheerful yet oddly sad-eyed
man), now well into his sixties had lost his Down's Syn-
drome son to pneumonia almost thirty years ago and
had sworn he'd dedicate the rest of his life to giving
developmentally disabled people the opportunities that
had been denied his son.

As I entered, Dave was reprimanding some retro-
Grunge teens who'd been loudly making fun of the
nientally impaired cook. They grumbled halfhearted ap-
ologies and went back to their burgers, casting contemp-
tuous glances in Dave's direction for several minutes
afterward.

Sitting at the counter, I greeted Dave and said, "You

152

Gary A. Braunbcck

know you're gonna find your windows smashed or some-
thing worse tomorrow morning?"

"Don't matter, I got insurance. I just won't tolerate
folks makin' fun of my employees. Sayin' that I hire
folks from 'Tards 'R' Us. These people got enough to
deal with without having to—ah, hell, you know what
I mean."

True. I'd lost part of my tongue as a child and had
undergone years of speech therapy in order to relearn
how to speak clearly. Even now my words come out
semi-slurred about half the time, and it makes me sound
as if I'm . . . well, not quite right. I endured a lot of
mockery from my peers as a kid, and still get pitying
glances from adults who don't know me very well. I sup-
pose that's why I feel such an affinity for the staff of the
People's Place.

"So," he said to me, grinning, "that lovely lady who
permits you to be her husband—how's she doing?"

"Cathy's fine. She said to teli you 'hey,' and that all
of us will be in for brunch on Sunday."

"I'll make sure to clean the grill, then." He cocked a
thumb toward the smiling cook who grinned at us from
the other side of the pickup counter. "By the way, he's
concocted a new burger. Calls it the 'Gut-Buster/
Loaded with everything you can imagine. Order one
for you?"

"Medium-well, with onion rings and a large Coke."

"Ah, a man after my own heart—screw that choles-
terol count,"

"Amen," I said, waving at the cook, who winked at
me and waved back.

As I waited for my "Gut-Buster," I found myself rem-
iniscing about the old neighborhood, about a season
filled with wonder and terror and, suddenly, there I was,
nine years old and on my way to Johnny's house to
play darts. . . .

"My turn!" squealed Johnny, grabbing the darts from I
my hand. We were in his backyard, our dartboard ]
mounted on the back basement door.

"Don't yell," I said, picking up one of the darts he'd
dropped in his excitement and tossing it to him. He

THE MARBLE KING

153

didn't catch it; he never caught anything that was thrown
to him. The other guys hated it when he came to play
ball with us—we always lost when he was on our team.

He threw the darts and got the bull's-eye twice out of
three times, and boy did that make me mad! I ran over
to the board and yanked out the darts.

"How come you can throw so good now, but when
you play ball you can't even catch a bunt and hold on
to it?"

"Because you guys act like it's for millions of dollars
or something. It ain't fun when you play it like that."

"You're no fun!" I yelled, and, darts still clutched
tightly in my hand, started to leave.

"Don't go!" he whined. "I was only jokin'!" If there
was one thing I hated more than his squealing, it was his
whining, and I was in a bad mood anyway and even as a
kid I never thought things out when I got mad, so I whirled
around and threw the darts at him and he reached out to
catch them, but I guess I threw them a little too hard
because even though he missed two, one of them stuck
into his shoulder deep enough to draw blood.

He just stood there looking at me—not the dart in his
shoulder—and made a sound; it wasn't a crying noise, it
was more like the high bleating a new puppy makes
when it comes out of the sac. "You did that because
you don't like me!"

"No, I don't! You're fat and dirty and you always
smell bad! Nobody likes you! We just let you come along
'cause we feel sorry for you."

Then he started crying. I ran out the gate and all the
way up the hill to my house. I fell three times and
scraped my knees so bad the skin started coming off.

As soon as I got home, I was sick with worry for what
I said and did to him.

So I built a model car. That always made me feel
better. I was a good model builder. When it was done,
I took it downstairs and set it on the shelf with all my
other models. I did a good job on it But I still felt
ashamed about Johnny and the darts.

That night as I lay in my bed I thought about all the
good times I'd had with Johnny over the years: building

154

Gary A. Braunbeck

THE MARBLE KING

155

that treehouse in my backyard; going to every new God-
zilla movie that opened at the Midland Theater; the way
he could beat anyone at marbles—sometimes without
even looking at the circle when he made his shot; the
times he'd gone out of his way to cheer me up whenever
I wasn't feeling too good about anything, even when I
didn't want to feel better ... all of these memories made
my guilt even worse. I couldn't shake the expression on
his face when I'd said that nobody liked him and he was
fat and dirty. It wasn't his fault that his family was poor
and he didn't have any nice clothes, or that because they
needed to keep the water bill down they had to alternate
bath days for everyone. Johnny was my best friend and
I had been real mean to him and I felt so sick about it
I just wanted to cry.

Sometime in there I closed my eyes for a moment and
was awakened by this sudden, hard weight on my chest.
Startled, I opened my eyes and tried to sit up—I figured
I was having some kind of bad dream—but he wouldn't
let me.

He being the small (but heavy), misshapen dwarf who
was squatting on the center of my body, crushing my
stomach.

In those days of 1969, before political correctness be-
came the curse of the day, people would have called him
a "hunchback;" most of the left side of his back was
taken up by a hump that looked to me the size of a
basketball. When he moved, he shifted his weight to the
right, seeming not so much to scoot or walk but to wob-
ble. His hair was white as freshly bleached sheets hang-
ing on a summer's clothesline; his beard at least ten
inches long, bushy and messy, mostly gray except for a
few streams of white from the corners of his mouth;
great, feathery eyebrows, bushier even than my grand-
pa's mustache, hid at least half his forehead; his nose
was thin and sharp, his eyes a shade of sparkling blue-
green I'd never seen before (or since, for that matter),
and the wrinkles in his old face looked like cracks in
flesh-toned plaster.

"No clapperdogeon, angler, or shivering-jemmy
me . . ."

The   Marble   King  introduced  himself,  then—after

seeing that I was having trouble breathing—wobbled off
my body and knelt in the air near my head. Despite the
length of his hair, he still couldn't hide the ears whose
large size seemed comically out of proportion with the
rest of his body. It didn't help that they were pointed
ears, as well; not like Mr. Spock's ears on Star Trek,
they weren't mostly normal-looking ears that just came
to a point and then stopped, huh-uh: The Marble King's
ears curved inward at the top, like that black curl of hair
on Superman's forehead in the comics. In their way, his
funny ears were kind of pretty in a pretty/different/
strange (but not bad strange) kind of way.

He gave me a closer look at the magic marble, then
shoved it in one of his vest pockets.

"Time for you to hear the tale, lad," he said, smiling.

And began to tell me a story that, over a period of
many nights to come, would take almost two months
to finish.

I need to explain something about the Marble King.

I used to do a lot of drawing when I was a kid, and
I wasn't nearly as good as Johnny. During the Christmas
of my eighth year, Johnny and I watched Rudolph the
Red-Nosed Reindeer on television and afterward decided
that we had to draw our own elves. Mine was okay, but
Johnny's was spectacular. I told him over and over how
good it was. He looked at my picture and saw my elf
with its bushy beard and eyebrows and weird, curly-
pointed ears, and said, "Hey, y'know, I'll bet—" Then
he proceeded to fix it; not too much, just enough to
make it look realer than it did. He smiled as he turned
the drawing around and said, "I say we call him the
Marble King."

"How come?"

"I dunno—he kinda looks like he'd be good at mar-
bles, don't you think?"

"Sure."

"And only you an' me'll know about him. Okay?"

"Our secret."

"Yeah!"

When I was opening my presents that Christmas, there
was one from Johnny. I remember as I opened it that I

75*

Gary A. Bmunbeck

hoped he didn't spend too much money on it, then I
pulled it out of the box.

Johnny had carved a three-dimensional replica of the
Marble King in balsa wood, then painted it in the same
colors I'd used in my drawing. He looked so alive I al-
most expected him to jump off the stand and dance a
jig. I wasn't only glad that Johnny Sawyer was my friend,
at that moment I was proud to have him as a friend.

On Saturday nearly two weeks after the dart business,
Johnny came over to the house and we built some mod-
els together at the kitchen table while my mom read the
paper and made sure that we didn't get too messy.

We had a couple of Aurora monster model kits.
Johnny toiled over the Godzilla he'd gotten for his birth-
day a couple weeks before while I had the Wolfman. I
always worked faster than Johnny, who seemed to take
forever to finish his models. I could do one in a couple
of sittings; with Johnny, a model might take him a week
or two; he liked to sand down the edges, apply the glue
with a toothpick so none of it would spill over when the
halves were put together, and then he'd paint only one
side and wait forever for it to dry before he'd turn it
over and paint the other side. I suppose this made me
grumpy because his models always looked better than
mine when they were finished. Plus he always beat me
at marbles and, whenever we had to do an art project
at school, he always got the best grade because he could
really draw good and whittle anything you could think
of if you gave him the wood. Most of the guys thought
he was kind of a sissy because he enjoyed doing that
stuff, and sometimes when I was with them and Johnny
wasn't around, I made fun of him for it, too, but the
truth was I wished I coutd do what Johnny could do.

"Hey, did Doug invite you to his birthday party?"
I asked.

Johnny shook his head.

"Well, he told me that I could bring a guest, so how
about you come with me?"

"Boy, that'll be great!" he squealed. "I ain't been to
nobody else's birthday party in a long time."

For a second I felt kind of sad because, outside of

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157

Johnny's mom, dad, two sisters, and his older brother, I
was the only person who'd gone to his birthday party,
and once again I felt bad about what had happened with
the darts and what I'd said, but I still didn't apologize.

"I'll bet Doug's mom'H make chocolate cake," I said.
"That's a good flavor for a birthday cake."

"I love chocolate! But I won't be able to eat too much
of it."

"Why?"

" 'Cause the doctor told my mom that I'm too fat and
that's why I feel sick and tired a lot. He told her that
chocolate and candy and stuff like that will make me
sick if I eat too much."

"Well, you and me, we'll just have one piece, okay?"

"Okay!"

Mom rolled her eyes and called us a couple of nuts.

The Marble King told me his real name: Alvis.

"It means 'Knowing in the Arts,' and was passed on
to me from mfather, and his father afore 'im, and his
father afore, and his father afore, back in the Old Place,
m'home, called Tallowcross—which means, 'Sanctuary
for the Outcast.'

"Listen, boy, so ye'll know why your covey-days need
be ending sooner than ye'd prefer."

(For the sake of clarity, I have decided not to relate
this tale in the same flowery prose as Alv'is told it to
me; it's hard enough to believe without the drenching
downpour of words, phrases, and idioms the likes of miz-
zle, half-a-grunter, snickert, and skull-thatcher.)

Here goes:

Once, when the Universe and its planets were new, the
gods looked down upon the Earth and decided they were
bored with the activities of Man, so they created a hidden,
secret place no humans could see. And for their amuse-
ment, the gods created a race of beings to inhabit this
place.

One of the gods proposed they make this new race
small; smaller, even than some of the animals—the boar
and sea-cow and deer would tower o'er them.

And so the race of beings—the Stillevolk—was created.
They have been known by many names—dwarves, imps,

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Gary A. Braunbeek

THE MARBLE KING

159

elves, kobolds, masariols, leprechauns, duricaunes, wich-
leins, boggarts, redcaps, jacks-in-the-green, and thousands
more. They were outcasts from the beginning, and so, in
their native tongue, named their home Tallowcross.

As an added cruelty, the gods made certain to afflict
each of the Stillevolk with some deformity of the body;
arms too short, legs too twisted, eyesight too blurry, and—
in the case of marblesmyth named Yokelthwaite—
humped backs.

Then one of the gods—it was never known which—
showed them mercy after a time. Since all of the Stillevolk
were male, and therefore had no way to procreate the
species, she gave unto them the gift of Life-Art: though
they could not couple with women of their race, they
could nonetheless keep their lineage strong: through paint-
ing, sculpting, or carving in wood, stone, or marble, each
could create one being who would be given full, animate
life, and those creations could go on to create one other
like themselves, and those creations one other, and those
one other. . . .

I suppose every neighborhood has its Home of the
WeU-To-Do, and in my old neighborhood it was the Gil-
ligan house. Doug's mom and dad both worked for the
government and made lots of money—they were always
talking about things like stock figures and bond maturi-
ties and portfolios and investments and rollovers and
profits for the quarter and there wasn't a thing in their
house that wasn't expensive. Theirs was the only house
where I had to take off my shoes (but not my socks) in
order to come inside because the carpet was so expen-
sive. It made me nervous to be in there on account ev-
erything was so nice and I was always afraid I'd break
something or make it dirty. Doug had two older sisters
and two older brothers and all of them had really neat
clothes that I guess cost a lot of money. Doug was okay
most of the time, even though he was mostly a spoiled
little snot, and we got along on account of him liking to
build models.

For his birthday I dug into my Frankenstein bank and
got out enough to buy Doug a nice model paint kit,
which he really liked. I'd gotten to the party early, figur-

ing that Johnny would meet me there, and we'd already
started in on the cake when Johnny knocked on the
front door. He looked nice in his freshly washed jeans
and dress shirt (as far as I knew, the only one he owned),
plus he'd borrowed a tie from his dad and worn that as
well (even though the knot looked like something you'd
see on a noose in one of those old Westerns where the
posse hangs a bad guy).

Doug went over and—not opening the screen door so
Johnny could come in—said, "You can't come in unless
you got a present."

"I'm sorry I'm late," said Johnny, "but I had to finish
my chores."

"You can't come in unless you got a present.1" Doug
hissed. I knew he was lying, that he just didn't want
Johnny in his house, because a whole bunch of kids had
come to the party and not all of them had brought
presents.

"But I don't get my allowance for another week!" said
Johnny. "It ain't much, but I been saving it up, and next
week I'll have enough to get you a present and I'll give
it to you, then, okay?"

"No!" Doug slammed the door and everybody else
laughed. I was getting kind of mad. I knew that Johnny's
dad was laid off from the plant and they didn't have
much money coming in, so it really wasn't fair of Doug.

I should have said something, but—like with the
darts—I didn't.

About half an hour later there was a knock on the
door and this time when Doug answered Johnny was
shaking a box wrapped in aluminum foil that had an old,
torn ribbon on it.

"Here's your present!" he said.

Doug opened the screendoor and yanked it out of
Johnny's hands. "It better be a good one."

He let Johnny come in and sit next to me while he
opened it. I could see that it was a monster model kit
and that the plastic wrap had been torn off. That wasn't
good. Models that had plastic off were usually missing
pieces and you had to have all the pieces if it was going
to look right when you were done.

Doug pulled off the rest of the foil.

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Gary A. Braunbeck

It was Aurora Godzilla model that Johnny had started
last Saturday. Doug opened it and saw that some of the
pieces had already been painted and glued together. He
got real mad and threw it at Johnny and told him to
get out.

"But I thought you'd like it!" pleaded Johnny. "I ain't
so good at them kind of models and thought you'd like
finishing it." (I knew that part was a lie, because Johnny
was better than anyone when it came to models.)

Doug screamed so loud his face got all red. "I meant
you had to bring me a present that was brand new!"

"But I don't get my allowance for another—" But
Doug's two older brothers came in and threw Johnny
out the door. Doug crammed the Godzilla model in the
trash and then the rest of the kids all laughed as they
made fun of Johnny. I told Doug I had to go to the
bathroom, but what I really did was sneak out the back
door. I felt sick and decided that Doug Gilligan wasn't
going to be my friend anymore. I went over to Johnny's
house and invited him to come over and stay all night
that Friday and he said maybe, but I can't be sure be-
cause he was still crying real hard, and when I got home
I went up in my room and cried too because I figured
Johnny was feeling lonely and ugly and fat and dirty and
I didn't want him to feel that way but didn't know what
I could do to make him feel better.

Though the explanation varies among the Stillevolk,
Alv'is told me that Yokelthwaite—from whom he was di-
rectly descended—and many others were somehow able
to escape Tallowcross and find their way out to mingle
with Humanity, where some humans accepted and be-
friended them. A few—Yokelthwaite included—even fell
in love with human women and were stunned to find that
love returned in equal measure; thus did the Stillevolk
come to know the beauty of physical love, and no longer
needed to rely upon their Life-Art to continue their race.
Still, their size and appearance ensured that the Stillevolk
would never truly be part of Humanity, so they, along
with those women who'd wed them, journeyed to a secret
isle where they live to this day, watching through the Mists
of Dreaming as their children, and their children, and

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161

their children's children's children, became more a part
of humanity, growing to normal height and looking no
different from other human beings. What few of these
descendants realized, though, was that in every generation
there was born to each clan one in whom the Life-Art
was strong. These Gifted Ones had very special, very deli-
cate souls, souls that needed protecting.

Johnny Sawyer was such a Gifted One, descended from
Alv'is, who was descended from the marblesmyth
Yokelthwaite.

When Alv'is saw through the Mists of Dreaming what
was happening to Johnny, he knew that something had
to be done, and so he left his wife on the secret isle,
vowing he'd not return until he'd accomplished what he'd
come here to do.

It wasn't until much later that I realized what it was
about Johnny that drew me to him: He wore the expres-
sion of a child who was watching a really good game
and was waiting for someone—anyone—to ask him to
join in the fun.

I am glad that I was one of the few people who invited
him to come join in. I like to think it cancels out some
of my other life-sins.

Alv'is removed the magical marble from his pocket once
again. "D'ye know what this is, boy?"
"No."
"In time, then; in time."

Johnny was big. And fat. But I always suspected that
if someone pushed him too far, that fatness would prove
a major disadvantage to them.

I didn't truly realize how much of a friend I had in
that fat little boy until I was walking back from Turner's
Comer Market with a bottle of milk a few days after
the infamous birthday party. I was about a block from
my house when Doug and a bunch of friends (plus his
two older brothers) came out of an alley and sur-
rounded me.

"You left my party," snarled Doug.

"You were mean to Johnny."

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Gary A. Braunbeck

"So? That fatso ain't no fun. He ain't even that funny
to look at no more. How come you like him better
than me?"

"I just do, that's all!" Ah, the fury in those words:
Portrait of a Defiant Dipshit About to Have Knots Tied
in his Spine.

Doug got madder than hell. He looked at his two
brothers and they grabbed my arms, twisting them up
behind my back. It hurt like nothing else. I dropped the
milk bottle and it shattered all over the sidewalk. I was
scared half out of my mind and was afraid I was going
to be sick.

"You ate my cake and then you left my party!"

"So? I gave you a present—and it was a new one."

"Yeah, but you left because you like Fatso better'n
me."

It was then I noticed the greasy-looking brown paper
bag in Doug's hand.

"Open your mouth," he said.

I clenched my mouth closed tight. One of Doug's
friends pulled a long hunting knife out from under his
shirt.

"Open your mouth or you'll be sorry!" The boy with
the knife cut open one of my pant legs, slicing part of
my thigh. One of Doug's brothers grabbed a handfu! of
my hair, pulled my head back, and hit me in the throat
with his knuckles. I gagged because I couldn't breathe
and opened my mouth for a second.

That's all it took.

Doug reached in the bag and pulled out the filthiest-
looking rat I'd ever seen. It was half-crushed, bloody,
and—the worst part of all—still alive, if just barely.

"You're gonna eat this!"

"D-Doug, p-p-please?" I whimpered, my throat
throbbing and the air struggling to get into my lungs.

Before I could get my mouth closed again Doug's
other brother grabbed my jaws and wrenched my mouth
open even wider, and Doug shoved the rat into my
mouth. Someone pushed down on the top of my head
and I felt my teeth sink down and through part of the
rat's crushed back. I felt something thick and sick-

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163

making spill over onto my tongue and down my
throat, burning.

And then the rat, in its final moments of life, cornered
and in its death throes, rallied what little strength re-
mained to tear its claws into the side of my tongue and
bite down hard with its teeth on the tip. I actually felt
part of my tongue rip away as the rat thrashed and cried
out. I was certain that I was going to die.

Then I saw Johnny.

He exploded through the circle of boys, wielding a
large club of some sort in his hands, swinging it back
and forth. I saw the boys scatter—except for Doug and
his brothers, who let me drop to the ground, half a
crushed, dying rat hanging from my mouth. I heard
Doug scream and was able to see one of his brothers
running away, followed a second later by the other one.

Johnny fell on him like a curse from heaven. I heard
fists pounding into flesh and—I thought—a bone break-
ing. Then it was just darkness and whimpering and scuf-
fling footsteps until one of them ran away, and the next
thing I knew there was Johnny leaning over me, asking,
"Are you all right?" over and over again as he pulled
the now-dead rat from my mouth—which by now was
so filled with blood I couldn't talk. It would be nearly a
year before I was able to talk clearly again, and then
only sporadically, and another three before I'd lost
enough self-consciousness about the way my voice
sounded so I could have a conversation longer than
two minutes.

I was in the hospital when I woke up. It felt like some-
one had stuffed about a ton of cotton and bandages in
my mouth. Mom and Dad were there in the room; so
were Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer and Doug's parents, as well
as Johnny and Doug. Doug sat over in the corner, pieces
of heavy tape across his nose, both of his eyes black,
and his arm in a sling.

"I done that to him," whispered Johnny in my ear.
"Nobody pounds on my best buddy!"

Then the doctor came in and told everyone except my
parents that they had to leave. He told Doug's parents
that they needed to go down to the finance office to fill
°ut some forms. After they were gone, my mom sat

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Gary A. Braunbeck

down and told me that the doctors had had to remove
about a quarter of my tongue altogether—some on the
side, some near the front where the rat had bitten a
chunk off; then Dad came over and, along with the doc-
tor, explained to me that the rat had been diseased and
that I had been infected with the same disease when it'd
bitten me, and I was going to have to get a bunch of
shots in order to stop from getting sicker (the word "ra-
bies" was never actually spoken), and that the first shot
had to be given to me right now.

"It's going to hurt a little," the doctor said. "But
you're a tough little guy, you can take it."

I remember that the needle looked the size of a
rocket, and that it didn't hurt so much going in, it was
when they pulled it out that the pain hit; I wouldn't have
been surprised to see my skeleton being pulled out by
that needle.

It was a Sunday night a week or so after I'd finished
my last series of shots. I wasn't feeling well (the sore-
ness, though not nearly as intense, still persisted) and so
had gone to bed early. Tomorrow would be my first day
back at school since the shots began and I wanted to
be ready.

I was awakened around 10 p.m. by Alvi's, who came
crashing down next to my bed in a panic.

"Wake up, boy! Don yer boots and coat and get yer-
self out 'n on your way! Do it now!"

I lifted my head, still groggy, and angry that the dream
had come back to bother my sleep once again. "Huh?
Wha—?"

"Johnny's in trouble, ye simpleton! Ye got to help'm
and soonest, I say, else it'll be a most terrible of terrible
things!"

I could see the panic in his eyes and hear the fear in
his voice. I'd watched enough old horror movies to know
that there are some dreams you just don't ignore, and I
figured this was one of them, so—without a word of
explanation to my startled parents—I dressed quickly,
ran down the stairs, and boiled out the front door, run-
ning for all 1 was worth down the hill—not toward John-
ny's house, but Doug Gilligan's. I knew without Alv'is

THE MARBLE KING

16S

having to say so that whatever was going to happen
would happen there.

I took a shortcut thai emplied into the Gilligans' back-
yard. I saw that the lights were on in the garage and
could hear Doug and a bunch of other boys laughing
and trying hard not to be heard.

I crept over to one of the side windows and climbed
up on one of the trash cans, straining my neck as I
looked into the semidarkened garage. A couple of can-
dles were burning, allowing me to see what was going
on—though not as clearly as I would have liked.

I almost cried out in terror.

A large circle of boys stood in the center of the garage
floor, surrounding Johnny as they'd surrounded me on
Rat Day. I don't know how Doug had managed to get
Johnny to come over, what lie he told or bribe of food
he offered, but he had gotten him over to the garage,
and everyone—including Doug's two older brothers—
had ganged up on Johnny and tied his hands behind his
back and then tied his feet together and stood him up
on a sawhorse then put a noose around his neck and
tied the other end to one of the thick overhead beams,
and I was so scared I couldn't move because Doug was
standing there wilh a baseball bal in his hands while
Johnny was crying so hard he couldn'l lalk or cry out
or nothing, and I knew this was about what Johnny had
done on Rat Day, that they were getting even with him,
and I'd all but decided to go to the front door and tell
Mr. Gilligan what was going on when Doug drew back
his arms and swung out and knocked the sawhorse out
from under Johnny and the rope pulled tight and I was
so sure I heard something snap and that was it, that was
All She Wrote, I outright panicked because Johnny was
hanging there, red-faced and shuddering, trying to
thrash, and I saw him mess in his pants and I screamed
as loud as I could as I jumped down and grabbed the
trash can and threw it over my head into the window,
shattering the glass and causing one of Ihe boys inside
to open the garage door—

—I didn't give him the chance to shut me out, I ran
full-force into him, knocking him back into a tool rack
that collapsed against his weight, and then I grabbed the

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Gary A, Braunbeck

boy who'd cut open my pant leg and hit him in the face
as hard as I could, two or three times, until blood came
out of his nose, all the time screaming at him to give
me his knife give it to me GIVEITTOMEEEEE\ And
he finally did, but by now Doug and his older brothers
were on me, trying to get me down on the floor, but I
was so scared I guess I went a little crazy because I bit
one brother's arm and stuck the other one in his hand
with the tip of the knife, then I got away and grabbed
a big hammer and hurled it through another window,
and now I could hear Doug's mom and dad outside on
their front porch veiling, "What the hell is going on in
there Jesus look at the windows bygod I'll teach that boy
a lesson he'll never forget," but then somebody hit me
in the middle of my back with a crowbar and I fell to
my knees, dropping the knife that I was going to use to
cut the rope, and as I looked over at him I saw that
Johnny wasn't moving anymore, or making any sounds,
or nothing, and his face had started to turn sort of
bluish-white color and I didn't know if he was alive or
dead or—

—a small, misshapen figure, bushy-bearded and
pointy-eared, dropped down from the rafters and tore
into the rest of the boys like some kind of monster from
the Friday Night Chillers on Channel 10; bones were
broken, noses were split, lips bloodied, eyes blackened—

—and Johnny wasn't moving, I didn't even think he
was breathing ohgodl—

—"Run, boy!" shouted the Marble King. "Get ye
away from this place as swiftly as you can fly!"—

—I tried to say something about Johnny, but by this
time Mr. Gilligan was in the garage and screaming, run-
ning toward Johnny and grabbing his legs, lifting him up
so the rope wasn't so tight and shouting at one of the
older boys to pick up that goddamned knife over there
and cut this rope RIGHT NOW—

—I struggled to my feet and looked at Johnny's discol-
ored, still face, and I whispered, "I'm sorry about the
darts," but I don't think he heard me—

—then I ran. Fast and hard, tears blinding me, fear
choking my breath, until I dropped down onto a small
green hill near Chris Brothers Funeral Home.

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167

"Catch yer breath, boy, ye'll be needing it."

The Marble King stood over me, hands on hips, one
foot impatiently tapping.

"I ... I d-don't know what ... is he ...
ohgodGodGOD . . . Johnny, they, they—"

"I know what they did, boy. \ was there, d'ya recall?"

"Uh-huh."

Alv'is showed me the marble once more. "Have ye
figured out yet what this be?"

"Is it ... is it some part of Johnny?"

"Aye! This be the soul of your friend, and if ever I
intend to return to m'home isle, 'tis my duty to find a
covey such as yerself who will take the burden of its
care from out m'hand.

"Be you that covey, boy? Is your love for your friend
such that you will be the keeper and protector of his soul
until such time as ye both are given back to the dirt?"

My chest hurt, my tongue (what there was left of it)
was bleeding again, I could barely see, I was terrified
almost out of my mind and feeling like a stinking, lousy
coward for having run away and not saved my friend
and I didn't want anything more to do with the Marble
King or what he did to my dreams or his stupid, stupid,
stupid questions*. "I don't ... I don't know," I choked,
then coughed until I vomited in the grass.

Grabbing my hair and pulling up my head when I
finished puking, the Marble King looked me straight in
the eyes and said, "D'ya love him, boy? When he crosses
your thoughts, d'ya feel toward him as y'might a brother,
had ye one?"

"Yeah . . . uh-huh."

"Then is it such a frightful burden, this? To shield
your friend who ye'd call brother if n you could?"

"He's my best friend!"

"Then take it, boy, take possession of yer friend's soul
and care for it as ye would a newborn babe; with love
and tenderness, defending it against any who would do
it harm."

Alv'is placed the marble in my hand, and I knew it
was all true, because I suddenly felt Johnny with me, as
if he were standing right there next to me. I knew, at
that moment, that whatever this thing called "child-

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Gary A. Braunbeck

hood" was, well . . . mine had just come to its end. But
still there was magic, still there was wonder.

"You'd best be getting to your task, boy," said the
Marble King. "He'll be needing you soon, and forever."

I closed my fist around Johnny's soul and nodded my
head, smiling and weeping at the same time. "I will.
I promise."

" Tis a sacred thing, that promise. And know this: I'll
be popping around from time to time to make sure you
keep it."

And with that, starlight sparking from the heels of his
jackboots, he wobbled/ran toward a patch of thick, roll-
ing mist, gave me one last ye-be-watching-yerself glance
over his humped shoulder, then passed through the veil
and was gone.

I could hear Dave laughing at me from the far end of
the counter as I resigned myself to the fact that there
was no way in hell I was going to be able to finish my
"Gut-Buster" burger, so Dave—grinning to beat the
band—put it in a doggie bag for me. "Got yourself lunch
for the next couple days here."

"Those things'!! kill you, you eat enough of them."

Laughing, he slapped hands to his wondrous belly and
said, "But, dang, you'll kick off with a good meal in you,
that's for sure."

I paid my tab, collected my leftovers, and—instead of
heading back out to my car—started toward the alumi-
num swinging doors of the kitchen, giving Dave a look
to make sure it was all right. He winked and gestured
for me to go on.

Once inside the kitchen I stood at the far end of the
prep area and said to the cook, "That's one helluva
burger, the 'Gut-Buster,' "

"Th-th-thanks."

"You ready to go home? Cathy's gonna worry if we're
too late."

Johnny pulled off his paper chefs hat and laughed.
"B-b-boy, that wife of yours!" (Which came out as Boy-
tha'whyffudyers. It takes a while to learn to understand
his speech.)

"Yeah, well," I said, "she sure treats you nice."

THE MARSLE KING

169

"Th-th-that's 'cause I help her with the housecleaning.
You don't, not s-s-so m-much."

"Guess I'm lazy."

"Sure are." He rubbed his neck and winced a little.

"It hurts today?" I asked.

"J-j-just a little." There are people, like those retro-
Grunge teens, who make fun of Johnny's short, almost
stumpy neck. The doctors weren't able to repair the
damage to certain broken sections of his neck bone (a
piece of which was crushed beyond repair) and so had
to remove part of it, and what remained mended well
enough but the surgery, coupled with oxygen having
been cut off from his brain for nearly four minutes, left
Johnny permanently brain-damaged. In his mind, he'll
always be nine. But that matters neither to Cathy nor
to me. We see only the pureness and decency of a truly
good human being; all else is folly.

Johnny lives in the small guest cottage in back of our
house. Whenever he doesn't come over to spend the
evening with us—two nights a week—he's back there
carving away on his wood blocks, making puppies for
the neighborhood children, sometimes kittens, a lot of
toys, and—especially around Halloween—the "realest,
scariest" monster masks you've ever seen (people swear
that the masks actually become animated at times). Every-
one loves him. After nearly four decades of being on
this Earth, that's how it should be.

I have kept my promise to Alvi's; I have cared for
Johnny and his soul as well as I can. His every moment
is full and rich, he's never lonely and is only alone when
he wishes to be, and I will defend him against harm—
be it physical or emotional—with everything I have. He
is my friend, my brother, and I love him dearly.

"I wanna get h-home," said Johnny. "I'm workin' on
a Easter present f-f-for Cathy."

"Really? What is it?"

"A secret. You'll s-see. I p-p-p-promised her that th-
the Easter Bunny'd leave something in her basket."

"There's no such thing as the Easter Bunny."

By now we were out the door and getting into the car.

"So you don't believe in the Easter B-B-B-Bunny?"

"No."

170

Gary A. Braunbeck

He looked back at the diner and grinned. "Well, that's
your problem."

We laughed loudly as we headed for home, and I can't
say for certain but I think I saw a small figure scurrying
across the diner's rooftop, starlight sparking from the
heels of its jackboots, long beard napping against the
wind before it leaped from the edge of the building and
vanished back to that place of wonder and magic that
ail outcasts dream of in lonely hours before their friend
comes to break the solitude.

But I could be wrong.

And if you don't believe a word of this story, well,
that's your problem.

THE CEILIDH

by Connie Hirsch

Connie Hirsch has written many excellent stories for various
anthologies, including 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories,
The Shimmering Door, and Fantastic Alice, she lives in
Massachusetts.

By the eighteenth hour of Thanet Watt's labor, the
midwife knew her patient was beyond her art, and
so she sent her apprentice panting out of Dunburn and
up into the green hills, to ask for Auld Annie to lend
her hands. The wisewoman came back straightaway, her
gray hair flying loose from under her lace cap, and
quickly diagnosed the problem. "You'll be having
twins," she told Thanet, "and soon, if I have aught to
do with it. I'll just get the first wee bairn turned a bit,
and we'll have him out."

Auld Annie showed she deserved her reputation for
having more courage than five strong men, for she went
to her delicate work with a will and a sureness that al-
layed her patient's fear, relaxing her enough to deliver
first lan and then Geoffrey, squalling red infants that the
wisewoman slapped and then handed on to their grateful
mother. Auld Annie would accept no coin for her ser-
vice, but instead discreetly collected the caul that
wrapped young Geoffrey. If she felt the inspiration of
any oracular pronouncements, she kept them silent in
front of the twins' good Protestant parents.

Auld Annie went home with the caul, and tanned it
in the water in the hollow of an oak tree that had been
blasted apart by God's good lightning, then packed it up
with fresh herbs in a scrap of fine linen, and hid it away
in a rafter in her attic. "You never know when you'll
have a day of need" was one of her favorite sayings.

171

772

Connie Hirsch

Now, the Watts never knew about the caul, and more
the better, for twins are three times as much work as a
single baby, and they might have spoiled them, or gone
in fear, had they been expecting strangeness from their
twins. In the fullness of time, the tiny babies grew into
sturdy young boys, and the boys grew up to be tall young
men, so big their mother could scarcely credit the
thought that once she could hold each one in her
cupped palms.

Geoffrey and lan attended dame school, preferring to
sit side by side on benches of succeeding size. Their
teachers tried to separate them, but the boys always con-
spired to behave worse apart than together, and most of
the transitory young women who took their turns teach-
ing were wise enough to take the path of ease with the
Dunburn Twins.

In looks they were quite alike, with medium brown
hair and blue eyes, and fair faces neither too long or
short. They smiled easily, and were quick with a joke to
share, or hands to offer should the need arise. They were
a surprise to their dour parents, for such openness is not
much found round Dunburn, but being twins and thus
prodigies, it was acceptable, barely.

The twins could always be found when there was a
wedding or a ceilidh. They'd stomp, whirl, and prance
their way through the sets, with such style that any girl
was shown off to the best advantage, and rival swains
could not feel much jealousy, for the lads were quick
to switch partners and show no particular favor to any
two lasses.

Stout lads such as these were put to work early on
their parents' farm, setting aside their wages to save for
their own farmstead. The twins planned to go in on a
fine piece of ground near Dunburn, for they could not
but pull the plow together, they said, like oxen under a
yoke. If they had been a team, lan would have been the
nigh ox, leading his slightly bigger, slightly more
thoughtful brother in and out of trouble.

It happened in the twins' nineteenth year that they
drove some of their father's steers to market over the
hills to Kilgallie on Midsummer's Day, planning to stay
late for the ceilidh on the village green that night.

THE CEILIDH

173

But the day dawned gloomy, and the wind picked up
even as they switched their cattle along, and a fine driz-
zle had set in by noon. By sundown (what could be seen
of it) sheets of rain were blowing through the cracks in
the inn's windows, and the Dunburn Twins gave up
thought of dancing, and worried about their journey
home. They were loath to spend good coin on a night
in the inn's loft, when for but a wet two-hour walk they
could be home in their cheap beds, but they lingered
late and were on the verge of spending the dear money
anyhow, when the rain let up, and winds chased the
clouds away to reveal a bright full moon.

So the twins set out later than they should, with the
lunar light to guide them along the road under the drip-
ping trees. Older, wiser men might have been more cau-
tious on such a night, but the boys were jolly, and
walked along singing a raucous song that echoed back
from the hills.

By the time they'd reached the old stretch of road
that had been built by the Romans, the clouds had re-
grouped, and the drizzle recommenced, and soon the
Dunburn Twins were wet, and cold, and silent. Thus it
was when they espied a light not far off in the hills, and
the faint strains of music.

They stopped under an oak tree, shaking the water
off their jackets, and rubbing the moisture off their faces.
"Do you hear that, Geoff?" said lan, the older and
bolder of the two. "I cannot recall no houses along
this stretch."

"Aye," said his brother. "But that does not mean
there is no house. On such a night as this, it would stand
out as not in the daylight. Do you think we should go
see?"

His twin answered in the affirmative, so through the
catching underbrush they pushed, it slapping wetly at
their faces and arms. But they were strong and young,
and they bulled their way across the valley and up the
hill, losing sight of that tempting light but never out of
hearing of the music of three pipers, and the rhythmic
tread of dancing feet on a wooden floor, which guided
them sufficiently so that when they saw the light again
they were right on top of it.

174

Connie Hirsck

From out of the hillside it came, halfway up the rocky
face, with a little scree of gravel and roots leading to it,
as though the whole hill were some cleverly immense
building and the doorway to it placed high. The light
was glorious yellow, so thick that it sprang out from the
opening like a golden waterfall on air and trees and
rocks. It was a warm light, welcoming, but so bright you
could not see into it.

Now, never before had the twins seen such a thing,
and most likely no one from their town, nor even their
county as well. You might think that they would have
hesitated more, but the music was so beautiful, and the
light so, too, that the wonder of it coming from a cave
hardly checked their curiosity. It was lan who led the
way up the hill, his feet threatening to slip on the wet
rocks, and Geoff right behind him, grasping at the roots,
and cutting his palm on a sharp rock just as he reached
the opening. The pain brought him to a halt, to curse
and examine the wound. He was left behind by his en-
tranced twin as he wrapped his hand with his pocket
handkerchief.

Just a moment it was, but when Geoffrey Watt
stepped up to the cave, his twin was gone. It had a nar-
row opening, slim enough that a fat man could not have
squeezed past the rock of it. Inside, he could see dancing
shapes in the light, and the music was loud and raucous,
so in he went.

Geoff found himself on a wooden dance floor, laid in
a cave where the stalactites were like pillars supporting
the roof, or perhaps it was that a building had been
carved to resemble a cave. The supports were made of
limestone, smooth and pale, showing darker veins, lost
in shadows as they ascended beyond the level of the
lamps that attached to them. The hall was vast, more
than a football field long, with many lamplit passages.

A ceilidh was in progress upon the floor, wild and
kicking, as couples and formations of four and eight
pranced together in a figure and split apart again, follow-
ing some grand scheme that Geoff s dazzled mind could
not compass. The musicians played on a little stand at
the far end, blowing full into their pipes with effortless
strength that never let up.

THE CEIUDH

175

Most of the dancers were richly dressed, though here
and there plainer folk could be seen in their homespun
wool and linen, moving among their betters with gay
abandon. The dancers were all beautiful and young, fair
and thin-featured. More people came and went from the
side passages, some to watch and some to join. On the
far side, Geoff thought he glimpsed lan, walking with a
fair maid, and so he tried to hurry around the dance
floor, avoiding the whirling couples that swung out as
though to intercept him, their hands reaching out to in-
vite him in. But the lad only smiled and held up his
bandaged hand.

Long before he reached the other side, a young
woman dressed in fine blue silks, who looked no older
than his own nineteen years, came up to him. "Welcome,
stranger," she said in a lilt. The jeweled combs wrapped
up in her straw-yellow hair twinkled in the lamplight.
Her eyes were large and green as new grass, and she
weaved before him, in time with the pipers. "Would you
join our dance?"

Almost Geoff found his feet picking up to follow the
beat, but his hand throbbed angrily, and the discomfort
made him remember himself. *'I am looking for my
brother," he said. "Have you seen him? I do not want
to dance."

The pale maid seemed not fazed by his declaration.
She smiled sweetly, disclosing even, white teeth. "Would
you take aught to sup then, something to drink?"

Geoff found himself so hungry, so thirsty that his
knees almost would not support him. Had it been only
hours since he and his twin had lingered in the Kilgalhe
inn? It might have been a year or more, to judge by his
starvation, like a sponge that has been squeezed of its
water once and twice. "Please, fair one," he heard him-
self say.

"I am the White Mare," said the maid. She reached
up and touched Geoff s face with her cold hand, and the
young man didn't even mark the strangeness of such a
name. The chill of her fingers seemed to seep up his arm
and neck into his mind. "Follow me to the feast," she
said, sliding her fingers down his sleeve to his hand, and
pulling him along.

176

Connie Hirsch

They walked through halls and halls, all lit with cold
yellow lamps, over floors of white marble and black
granite, up stairs and down ramps, past doors made of
iron and wood and stone, past empty ballrooms and
grand rooms where fantastic furniture loomed in the
shadows, till Geoff s sense of direction had spun into
flinders, till at last they came to a long dining room
where couples sat at a great table piled high with all
manner of food and drink, and fed each other tender
tidbits.

The White Mare showed Geoff up to an empty couch,
laid out for two. All around them the couples continued
to eat, sitting twined on couches, all dressed in finery,
all oblivious. Geoff took the seat the White Mare indi-
cated, then she slid next to him so that her cold, cold
thigh rubbed against his, and her cold arm brushed his
as she reached for bread on the table before them. "Eat,
my man," she said, holding a fine white crust before his
mouth, "eat and feed me in my turn." Her face was
close to his, and Geoff thought it was the loveliest visage
he had ever seen, might ever see in his entire Me.

With trembling hand he reached out, to guide the food
to his mouth, but when he touched her slender white
hand with his bandaged palm, the cold struck right
through to his wound, so painful he shuddered and drew
back. "Truly," he said, "truly, all I want is my brother."
Strangely, his incredible hunger and thirst were gone.

The White Mare seemed not ruffled by his request.
"Come," she said, sliding off the couch in her fine blue
silks. "Come with me then, my man, and I shall bring
you to what you desire." She led the way out of the
dining hall, the couples as oblivious as before, and Geoff
followed her again.

The halls seemed more primitive now, the bones and
sinews of the earth showing through the artifice pre-
viously displayed. Sometimes the floor was smooth rock,
worn as if by the flow of waters, sometimes dirt crunched
under their feet. Geoff followed the White Mare up long
winding stairs, mesmerized by the play of light on her
dress, the way it molded around her swaying hips; then,
without noticing how it came to be, he was following
her through a moonlit grove, into a bower hung with

THE CtlUDH

177

veils and flowers. "Love me, my man," the White Mare
said, loosening the combs that held her hair, so that her
tresses fell down upon her shoulders and her breast, and
unfastening her dress so that it fell in blue waves about
her feet.

The sight of the White Mare's fine pale body aroused
such lust in Geoffrey as he had never felt in his entire
life. He couldn't help but cross the rose petal-dappled
floor, and embrace her tightly, feverishly as though the
heat that poured off him must be quenched by the ice
of her pliant body.

But the White Mare's body was cold, numbing Geof-
frey's arms and body, driving delicious needles of ice
into his lips where he kissed her face. He loved it, loved
her, had all but surrendered himself to her, when the
bandage slipped on his wounded hand, and the icy pain
shocked him back to sanity.

With an inarticulate cry, Geoffrey scrambled away
from her, and the last glimpse he saw of the White Mare
was her calm beautiful face, regarding him without ex-
pression, without reproach. He stumbled, half-blind with
pain and half-blind with panic, out of the bower and
through nightmare corridors that he never could quite
remember again, until he burst into the open air, away
from the strange halls where she had led him, out into
a cold, snowy hillside, falling down a scree of loose rocks
and roots toward a road. And there he came to rest,
until the penetrating cold shook his body to wakefulness.

Only then did Geoffrey remember that his brother lan
was somewhere still inside the hill, and forced himself
to his feet. He wore only the light clothes appropriate
for mild summer weather, but where he stood now, it
was full winter, with a thin crust of snow on the ground,
and the branches all bare, and the stars twinkling
harshly. There was no light from the hillside now, no
enchanting music to lead him back to the ceilidh, and
though he cried his brother's name, there was no answer.

Geoffrey called until he was hoarse, and his hand and
feet were numb, and his body had passed beyond shiv-
ering into a peculiar warmth. He knew in his heart that
he might die from the cold, but so far gone was he that
all he could do was stumble to his knees and then lie by

178

Connie Hirsch

the roadbed, and if a late carriage had not happened by,
and seen him by the light of its lanterns, he would have
indeed passed there and then, and there would be no
more of this story.

But the carriage did come by, and the Christian kind-
ness of its inhabitants saw him wrapped in blankets and
taken back to the very Kilgallie inn that he and his twin
had left, it seemed, only hours before. The folk there
recognized him, and who wouldn't, since the twins that
had disappeared the summer before had been the talk
of the county. Even as the innkeeper's wife put a nearly
insensate Geoff into a bath of warm salt water, they
dispatched one of the stableboys over to Dunburn, to
tell his parents that one of their missing sons had shown
up, and by the time Geoff woke up in a large clean bed,
his parents were by his side to spoon gruel to his lips,
and listen to his disjointed tale of what had happened
to him.

"Elf-taken" the good people of Dunburn muttered
when they thought the Presbyterian minister was not
close by to hear. It was the position of the Church Fa-
thers that such people as the Fair Folk did not exist, but
the common people knew better. Grandmothers re-
minded themselves to tell grandchildren circumspectly
veiled tales of elf-abduction so that they should be
duly warned.

So it was that the county discussed the nine-day's won-
der of Geoffrey Watt's return, and got back to its regular
business. Geoff himself began a slow recovery. Aside
from minor frostbite, there were no obvious physical ef-
fects from his ordeal, yet he did not have his former
energy. For days he was so weak he could hardly lift a
cup to his mouth, and he slept almost constantly. When
he was awake, he found himself staring off into corners,
straining to hear beautiful music playing in the distance.
When he ate, the food tasted bland, and his parent's
home, the houses in his village, all looked small and gray
and similar. Nearly all life had fled the world, he felt,
and when his mother cajoled him into sitting in a chair
in the dooryard, in the spring sun, the slender heat of it
did not warm him. As winter passed, it was remarked
by the neighbors that his brown hair was showing early

THE CEILIDH

179

silver, and lines of care were etching his young face. It
was not too much to say that he had aged ten years
since he was found wandering.

Auld Annie, the wise woman who had delivered the
Dunburn Twins twenty years gone, had spent the winter
season visiting her daughters down in the mild South, so
when she came back to her cottage she did not hear of
Geoffrey Watt's return until spring was well along.
"Well," she said, when told, "time for me to find what
has been put by," a pronouncement that completely baf-
fled her visitor. The old dame clambered up to her raf-
ters and rooted through two decades' worth of
accumulation, until she found the little linen bag she'd
sewn for the caul that had birthed lan and Geoffrey
Watt. The bright blue ribbon was faded, and some
mouse had taken a nibble at it, but the caul was still in
one piece. "Good," was all Auld Annie said at this, and
she brought the little bag down, and put it up on the
shelf above her hearth, because it still wasn't the time
of need.

As spring grew toward summer, Geoff had a bit more
strength. He could stay on his feet long enough to help
with the simpler chores around the house and farm—
nothing appropriate for a man, but enough to salve his
conscience. So, too, could he make the walk into town,
and sit in the tavern cajoling too many drinks from sym-
pathetic friends. It helped to quiet the silent, murmuring
music he could almost hear, and make him forget his
guilt at having forgotten his twin.

It was the day before Midsummer's Eve that Geoffrey
stayed late with his friends once again, and went stum-
bling home in a state of inebriation. He made a wrong
turn on the road, on his way back to the farm, and didn't
notice until he was some miles along. To correct, he
went down another path, and another, and eventually,
he found himself crossing in front of Auld Annie's trim
little cottage in the twilight, with the old lady herself
sitting out front on her best wicker rocker. "Come in,
and have a chat, Geoffrey Watt," she said. "You owe
me that at least, for I am the one who brought you into
the world."

This, as you can imagine, stopped Geoff dead in his

ISO

Connie Hirsch

tracks. "You may well wish you could repent of the
deed," he answered. "For you brought two of us into
the world, and the other is no longer in it."

"No longer in it, but not dead," snapped Auld Annie.
"What would you give, Geoffrey Watt, to have your twin
back, hearty and whole?"

"My soul!" Geoff said anguished, "My very soul! I
have no need for it any more, since I turned my back
on my brother!"

Auld Annie sat back in her chair, her eyes glinting.
"No need for so high a price," she said mildly. " Tis
true enough that you lost your way when you left your
brother behind; but for that you can make amends, if
you've bravery and determination enough."

Geoff entered through her front gate, and knelt down
on the ground before her chair. "Then tell me, good
lady, what I should do," he said, "to deliver my brother
from this evil?"

Auld Annie shook her head. "First, do not call it
evil," she said. "The Fair Folk are neither evil nor good;
they just are. A good heart and a strong will prevail
against them sooner than great anger and a strong arm.
So put anger out of your heart, and blame yourself not
overmuch for your failure. Not many would have broken
free of the Fair Folks' glamour, you know."

Geoff looked thoughtful, for indeed he had never con-
sidered his own escape to be to his credit. "What must
I do?" he said.

"You must go back to the wild hills," she said, "And
when a door opens in the hillside, you must enter there
as before. The Fair Folk will not stop you—they have
no power to do so, only to lead you astray with tempta-
tions and illusions. I have prepared two things for you."

She pulled them out of her apron. "First, this cross I
have made for you, plaited from rowan withies." It was
a small thing, not even as wide across as his palm. Auld
Annie held it out in her knobby old woman's fingers, as
though she passed him Communion bread. "Keep it in
your pocket, and hold onto it whenever the Fair Folk
tempt you," she said. "Your faith is the only armor you
can wear in their realm."

Geoff took it, and put it in his pocket, tracing its

THE CEILIDH

181

whirls and twirls with his fingertips. "And the other that
I gift you with," Auld Annie said, holding out a little
bag on a string, "is the caul that you and your brother
were born in. Keep this around your neck, and it will
tell you when your brother is near. When you see him,
lay your hands on him, and lead him straight away from
the hill. If you are out before the dawn, the spell will
be broken."

Forthwith Geoff left her side and went back to his
parents' house, his remaining drunkenness drying up as
he went. He thought of telling them about his plan, and
decided against it. Better two whole sons than one bro-
ken one, he reasoned. He spent the day wandering the
country around their farm, the haunts that he and his
twin had played in as children. lan's absence had been
like a missing tooth in his mouth, a missing step in his
staircase. He never would be able to put his life right
again if he could not fulfill his obligation to his brother.

At twilight Geoffrey slipped away from the farm. He
did it often enough, to go down to the tavern, so it
would not be remarked unless his parents happened to
remember what day it was. He took the rowan cross in
his pocket, and the caul in its bag around his neck, and
he set out to walk slowly on the Roman road to Kilgal-
lie, listening intently for sounds in the night that should
not be there.

It was a moonless night with bright stars, so there
were no travelers save for Geoff. Sensible folk kept
themselves in on such a night and clapped up their shut-
ters tight, if they had any sense, so he was sure what he
had found when he saw a light gleaming from out a
nearby hillside, and faraway, familiar music tinkling
beautifully over the distance.

The crack in the hillside was much as it had been
before. It awoke seductive memories that Geoff had
tried to murder, how bright the colors had been, how
delicious the smells, how pleasant the music. The
whirling ceilidh, full of rhythm and beauty, faces and
bodies flashing past him—he grasped the rowan cross in
his pocket and took a deep breath, and squeezed
through the tight passage into the elven ballroom.

As before, the dancers held out their grasping hands

182

Connie Htrsch

as they passed by in their unceasing gavotte. The tread
of their stamping feet seemed to echo his heartbeat, to
lead the rhythm of his body and breath. The musicians
played their endless tune, and the loiterers still lingered
in the shadows. He stared at the bright crowd, searching
for his brother, without success.

Geoff found himself not surprised when the crowd
parted to let the White Mare come to his side. She, too,
was dressed as before, in her blue gown, with her pale
hair caught up with combs. "Welcome, my man," she
said. Her voice was a tune that had haunted his dreams.
"Would you join our dance?"

"I have come to take my brother home," Geoffrey
answered. The White Mare's grass-green eyes did not so
much as blink, so he repeated himself. "Take me to my
brother," he said. "I want nothing more of you, Lady."

"As you will, my man," she answered languidly. "Fol-
low me, then."

As she turned to leave, Geoffrey caught hold of her
wrist. Her flesh was as cold as he remembered, numbing
his hand, but he held on. "Take me to my brother," he
said. "I want no ballroom, I want no dining hall, I want
no bower or bed. Take me to him straight away, and
no tricks."

"No tricks, my man," the White Mare echoed in her
passionless voice. She ran her free hand down her arm
to clasp his hand, gently tugged him after her, as calm
as a full moon sailing the starry sky. She led him through
corridors and stairs and rooms, but Geoff kept his eyes
focused on his feet and his hand on the rowan cross in
his pocket. "Tan," he whispered to himself. "Brother."

More music made him look up. They had arrived at
another ballroom, identical to the first, but instead of the
motley crowd there were dozens of couples, all identical,
moving in a great pattern dance. Every woman of them
looked like the White Mare; every man of them looked
like lan Watt; and all the couples were reflected again
and again in the dark mirrors that lined the walls.

"Your brother, my man," said the White Mare, drop-
ping his hand. Geoff looked over at her words, to catch
the slightest hint of malice flavoring her serene facade.
"Come dance with me, my man," she said. She held out

THE C&ILIDH

183

her pale hands, their fingers long and beautiful. "Lead
me in the pattern—"

Geoffrey Watt was mightily tempted, but he squeezed
the rowan cross inside his pocket until it flexed. "1 want
my brother," he said, choking out the words slowly and
precisely. As the dancers formed their squares, marched
in their rows to the music, he slipped out onto the floor,
stepping aside from time to time to avoid collisions. Now
he could see that despite their first impression, each
dancer was slightly different from the next one: a wider
cheekbone here, a darker eye color there. His true
brother—the one he had seen practically every hour of
every day for most of his life—should be as plain to him
as his own appearance in a mirror.

And there he was. lan—if it was he—did not notice
his twin, having eyes only for his partner. Geoff hesi-
tated, though. He did not know what would happen if
he chose an impostor though he did not imagine it would
be good. But how could he be sure? As he pondered,
he realized the bag that hung from the cord around his
neck, containing the caul, was vibrating, stronger the
closer he came to the suspected lan.

A movement at his elbow made him look over. The
White Mare was standing by his elbow. "Come away,
my man," she said, and for a moment Geoff could have
thrown away all his life to do just that—but he had be-
come practiced in self-denial. Without a word, he walked
between the rows of dancers, right up to his twin. "Come
away, lan," he said, placing his hand on his brother's
shoulder. "It's time we went home."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth but the
lights went out in the ballroom, and the music shrieked
into silence, and the twins were all alone. "Geoff?" said
lan in the darkness. His voice was steady and real. "I
thought me you were right behind. Have the dancers
flitted somehow?"

His hand still on his brother's warm shoulder, lan
looked around to see a glimmer of starlight off to his
right. "We're in the cave," he said. "Let us get out into
the open air, brother." Clasping each other's arms, reluc-
tant to let go, they felt their way together to the opening,
as tight as it had been before, and onto the hillside,

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Connie Hirsch

where the stars still burned in the summer night, and
the lightening of dawn was on the far horizon.

All the way home, lan berated his twin for spoiling
his fun, just as he'd gotten started dancing, and with
such a beauteous maid, too. He would not believe his
brother's story until they came to the farm, and he could
see for himself the changes wrought in a year's time—
repairs to the building, calves grown up into cows and
all the other evidence of time's passage. The twins' fam-
ily were overjoyed, and showered love—in a restrained
Presbyterian fashion—on both their prodigal son and the
one who brought him back.

Auld Annie heard news of the Dunburn twins' return
several days later, from a farmer passing by her house.
She permitted herself the space of a smile, and got on
with the rest of her daily chores.

lan Watt was largely unaffected by his sojourn in the
hillside. He swore all the days of his life that he had
only just begun to dance with a willing maiden when his
brother laid hands on his shoulder. As for Geoff, he was
more thoughtful, and became in later years known for
the strength of his wisdom. His fame for sagacity
couldn't have been hurt by his appearance, for his hair
went gray years earlier than lan's. Though they were
equally hale and hearty into their old age, he always
looked a few years older than his twin brother.

And for every year of his life after, on Midsummer
Geoff gave a party for his friends, and bade each of
them stay over, so that they would not be on the roads
late on that night. His ceilidhs always had loud pipers
and grand dancing, and never once did he take leave of
the celebration to go looking at the hills for a golden
light and the sound of faraway music.

KIND HUNTER

by Pad Nagle

Pati Nagle has been published in The Magazine of Fan-
tasy & Science Fiction, The Williamson Effect, and The
Book of Swords. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The hunter paused near the end of the tunnel, gather-
ing himself against emerging. He had not been to
this place before, but he knew he would not like it. Al-
ready the unnatural smells and the roaring, constant ca-
cophony were hammering at his mind. Had his quarry
not been here, he would never have come.

A brush of soft warmth against his calf. "Stay close,
Shade," he said softly. Golden eyes glanced up at his,
flash of green in their depths. Shade didn't like it here
either.

Bad place. Torril go home? queried the cat.

No.

Torril shifted the case that carried his bow and pulled
his hood forward, covering his ears. This was a city of
mortals; he must not be recognized. His kind rarely
walked among humans now, and to be noticed would
have undesirable results. A deep breath, and he started
toward the light.

A musician sat at the tunnel's end strumming a guitar,
soft chords hanging in the air, lonely, aching. For a mo-
ment Torril wished for his flute, but he'd left it behind
when he'd taken the kind hunter's oath. He dropped the
change from his train fare into the open case and walked
on, not bothering to query the man's mind; humans were
too busy with their own tumbling thoughts to heed gen-
tle questions. There would be birds, maybe mice, dogs
and cats he could ask. Some would have seen his quarry.

Gray skies outside, but brighter light. Torril shaded

185

186

Pati Nagle

his eyes. This was the older part of the city, built of
brick and stone rather than glass and steel, still too stark
for his comfort. Pavement separated his feet from the
living earth, isolating him. A carved stone cross towered
over the walk, a symbol abhorred by the creature he
hunted. A good omen? Perhaps.

Pigeons sat atop the cross. Torril greeted them
silentiy.

Do you know of a nightwalker hereabouts?

Nightwalker, no. Night we sleep. Food? Food?

No, I'm sorry.

Feathers whipped at the air. Torn] walked on.

Cold. The gray buildings seemed to suck the life out
of him. No green anywhere near them; they were trad-
ers' halls full of dusty books and such. Torril pulled the
lacings of his hooded coat tighter to hoard his warmth.

The coat looked enough like the current fashions of
mortals for him to escape notice, though no mortal had
formed it. His surviving sisters had woven the cloth and
wrought it into coat, tunic, leggings. He remembered
their hands in the dance of its making, dappled by green-
gold sunlight, while he sat apart carving the arrows that
now lay in the case with his bow. The essence of his
sisters' gentle touch remained in the caress of the fabric
against him. He smiled softly, sadly. Perhaps he would
see them again, if all went well. Perhaps.

Humans hurried along the sidewalks, and Torril fell
in among them, leaning forward to keep his face hidden
and to lessen his appearance of height. Shade ghosted
at his feet, stopping now and again to sniff at interesting
crannies and doorways. A shopkeeper shouted unwel-
come and batted the cat with a broom. Grey hackles
rose. A hiss, and he darted between Torril's feet to ex-
plore some friendlier spot further on.

The sun was too deeply veiled to be seen, but Torril
knew he had less than a quarter-day before dark, when
the hunt would begin in earnest. He would do well to
find shelter before then. He glanced up at the grayness,
troubled by the thought of a storm, and hurried on.

In the lace-curtained window a small, flat-faced dog
sat on a cushion. Its eyes watered. It was staring at
Shade.

KIND HUNTER

187

Where are trees? Torril asked.

Downhill, the dog answered. Cat there—careful.

Cat's a friend. Many thanks.

The dog opened its short muzzle to bark as they
passed. The window glass muted the sound. A circle of
mist appeared before the dog's face, then faded.

The next cross street sloped downward and Torril
turned that way, scenting grass on the cold breeze. His
steps quickened. He had not seen a free growing thing
since leaving home that morning, and after the rattling
train ride and the noise of this man-city he craved peace.
Shade scampered ahead toward a small park—a haven—
at the foot of the hill, and Torril had to force himself
not to run after her.

Trees, their green leaves singed with yellow, whis-
pered welcome. Autumn was coming, and summer things
would soon slumber. Torril stepped onto the grass and
sighed as its aliveness tingled at him through his boots.
He walked straight to an old oak and laid his hands on
the rough bark, felt its sleepy strength flowing into him,
closed his eyes.

Thank you.

The tree's glow washed through him slowly. He drifted
as if under a sea of golden warmth, drinking in renewal,
peace, life. Then through the depths a sound came to
him, distorted; a cry. Reluctantly he took his hands from
the trunk, stepped back, blinked his eyes open. The cry
became clearer. A human child, sitting on the ground
near a bench where two women chatted. Young enough
to hear; Torril touched its mind gently.

Trouble?

Toy! Toy!

Torril glimpsed bright colored triangles in the infant's
mind. The child stopped wailing and looked straight at
him, empty-handed, hopeful.

Shade?

Here. Bushes. I smell mice.

Find this, Torril asked, sending the toy's image to the
cat. With gentle urging, Shade abandoned his hunt and
went to a holly bush near the human child. Rustles fol-
lowed; a many-colored bail rolled out toward the child,
who grabbed it tight.

18ft

Pali Nagle

One of the women looked up. Torril faded close to
the tree trunk, cloaking himself in rustle-green breeze.

"Ba!" cried the child, pointing at him and beating the
toy with its other hand. The woman looked toward Tor-
ril and tree, saw only tree, and picked up the child.

Torril smiled to himself, turning away. So far from his
own people, it was good to have helped a small one.
His race bred slowly, their numbers diminishing as the
mortals' increased. With every forest cleared to make
way for farms or towns it grew harder for his kind to
survive. His own sister—Tana, the youngest—had re-
cently died in childbirth.

Tana. Lightning and terror; a pale face streaked with
rain and tears. The memory swept all pleasure from him,
cotd anger filling its stead. He became aware of the man-
city's towers fringing the park. With a shiver he moved
on, away from the women and the child, deeper into the
park toward a small cluster of trees that might shelter
him until dark.

A pathway led past the little grove: willows and ash,
grouped to form a pretty backdrop for a small pond.
They had gone untrimmed a while, the willows dangling
long trails of leaves into the water. Small shrubs at their
feet offered a few last blossoms to grace the harvest
season. Torril left the path and entered the tiny forest,
inhaling deeply of the green smells.

Shield me? he asked.

A swell of well-being answered him. The green, grow-
ing things of the world had no words, nor clear-shaped
thoughts. Feelings were their language. He had not real-
ized how sharply he would miss them until he'd left his
forest home. His hand went to the band of white cloth
at his brow: the kind hunter's badge. Not until he had
completed the task he'd sworn to perform would he re-
move it or return home. A kind hunter's oath set him
apart from his people. Killing was not their way, yet
killing was sometimes necessary, and he had chosen to
seek this kill on behalf of his kin.

Shade burst from beneath dark, glossy leaves, a tiny
mouse in his jaws. Fierce eyes glowed then vanished,
gray tail twitched welcome. Torril sat on the first thin

KIND HUNTER

IS9

layer of fallen leaves beneath an ash, and took bread
and fruit from the pouch at his waist. His sister Alia had
made the bread that morning, and handed it to him in
silence. No one spoke to a kind hunter; he stood outside
the circle of his people, apart from his kin, until his task
was finished.

The bread tasted good. The apples were still tree-
crisp; he cut them into slices with the small knife he
wore at his waist. A fierce little tooth, that knife. He
had traded a quiverful of his best arrows to have Yoren
dip it in molten silver. Its edge was not quite so keen
since, but would deliver a more bitter sting to his prey.

He finished his meal, cleaned the knife, and leaned
back against the ash. Around him the grove's strength
glowed softly, calming him. He opened his case. Bow
and quiver were ready in a few moments. He laid them
across his lap, leaned his head back, and inhaled sleep
with the musty dry scent of the leaves.

Darkness clung in sharp comers formed by the build-
ings of the street. Tall man-houses, squared-off blocks
built of smaller blocks, marched in straight lines as far
as Torril could see. Here and there a small tree or bush,
imprisoned in a man-made pot, formed a beacon of life
in the bleakness. Shade roamed near, questing for game
in the shadows. Torril listened to his thoughts, ready to
interpose questions before the cat made his kill.

Torril's quarry was here, that was certain. Shreds of
rumor led to this dark section of the town, always the
thoughts tinged with fear. Though Torril had never
sighted his prey, there was no question about the crea-
ture's nature. Terror and blood by night were the trade-
marks of his kind, and these things echoed in the minds
of the small creatures of the city, rippling outward from
this district. Torril listened to their wisps of thought,
some nearer, some stronger and more distant, a murmur-
ing stream.

He chanced upon a hollow in the flow—a curious
calm—and stopped to listen. No such eddy would ever
occur in the life-filled forest. That was the trouble with
forests. Too many layers on layers of living things. In a

190

Pati Nagle

man-city it was easier for a hunter to isolate his prey, to
control it, to ...

Realization, revulsion, a moment's touch of hunger
and hate. Torril wrenched his mind free and shut away
all thoughts, reaching out a hand to steady himself, find-
ing cold stone. The creature had sensed him, perhaps
knew now he was hunted. Torri! felt the ghost-touch of
a powerful mind questing, seeking him. He sat at the
foot of a building, willing the thoughts to flow past.

A bump against his shin. Reach out a hand to stroke
warm fur. Shade mewed a query, and Torril opened his
mind enough to hear the cat.

Go now? Go home?

Not yet.

Bad thing near.

Yes.

Eyes open, the world retreated into gray-and-brown
blocks once more. Torril got to his feet, shook off dark
feelings and started on, deeper into the heart of the man-
city. Shade did not roam far ahead now, but clung to
TorriFs ankles. Their way took them down narrower
streets, not as well-kept, not well-lit. Keen eyes in the
dark caught tiny movements in the shadows; Torril que-
ried briefly, sensed a rat's fear of Shade.

Nightwalker near?

Hunts. Hunts.

A skitter and the rat was gone. Shade made no move
to follow but stayed close, eyes wide, fur fluffed and
angry. Torril slid an arrow from his quiver and set it
noiselessly against the bowstring, calling the shadows to
cloak him. Shadows of stone and brick were less accom-
modating than forest shadows; it took an effort to bend
them to his will.

Tana, he thought, seeing her weary, rain-soaked form
stumbling toward him through the woods, weeping with
joy and sorrow. For her sake he would do this, kill one
of the creatures who'd caught her, enthralled her, defiled
her. A life for a life; that was the kind hunter's oath.

Breathing too fast. Torril focused on clearing his mind,
on silence, on hearing and seeing. The pavement was
damp now; a moist night. Tang of blood on the heavy

KIND HUNTER

191

air, fighting the city smells. Shade growled soft and low,
and fell back behind Torril's feet.

The hunters turned down a street lit by strange col-
ors—red and orange and the brilliant pinks of summer
flowers—glowing unnaturally in windows and over door-
ways. For all their weird illumination the street was still
dim. Though the night was more than half gone, mortals
strolled the walks or stood in clumps at corners here,
restless and sullen-looking, the lost or becoming-lost.
Torril held his bow as close as he could and wrestled
the shadows to conceal him, knowing he could not con-
tinue so for long. The effort was costing him some of
his alertness, and it was Shade's hiss that brought his
attention to two figures disappearing around a corner a
short way ahead; a male—tall and dark, somewhat slen-
der—preceding a ginger-haired female in high boots and
a short skirt. They seemed clouded by shadows, a skill
Torril's folk shared with the nightwalkers.

His scalp tingled. This was his quarry. How much bet-
ter it would be to meet him in a forest glen instead of
this dead city. But, of course, the creature knew that; it
was part of the reason nightwalkers tended to live in the
cities of men.

Torril saw cat-shelter behind a discarded box. He
flashed the image to Shade and told him to wait there,
then crossed the street alone, following the nightwalker
and his victim. Down an alley, dim and still, each step
that brought him closer to his quarry weighing on him.

To kill a being of high intelligence was wrong. That
was the rule he'd been taught, and, in part, it was the
kind hunter's justification, for the nightwalkers had no
such philosophy and caused great destruction among the
world's thinking races. Yet this did not ease the trouble
in Torril's mind. Was he not now, in his quest to slay
this creature, sunk to his own level?

Tana. She would be avenged. A life for a life, or his
kind would be overrun. The blood-seekers preyed on
mortals as food, and on the elven kindred—

There. In a dark doorway; the beast was toying with
his prey. The ginger-haired female stood over the lean
form reclined on a clutter of rubbish. A nightwalker's
eyes could mesmerize his prey into performing any un-

192

Pati Nagle

KIND HUNTER

193

natural act. Avoid the eyes, Tana had whispered to him,
her cold hands gripping his shoulders, rain dripping from
his hair onto her cheek.

He let go his cloak of shadows and silently nocked his
arrow; pure oak, sharpened and hardened in the fire of
his hatred. Move aside, woman, he thought, though only
to himself. The nightwalker must not hear him.

She did not move aside but leaned closer instead,
straddling her companion, bending her head to his. Tor-
ril suppressed his frustration and stepped out, seeking a
clear shot. The dark-haired man moaned, a sound which
lit acid flames in Torril's heart.

A plish—soft boot at the edge of an unnoticed pud-
dle—betrayed by his own inattention. Furious with him-
self, Torril raised his bow for one desperate shot as the
woman looked up at him.

Blood on her lips! On her lips! Eyes of ice stabbed
even as he flung himself away. The arrow clattered on
the pavement behind him.

Stop!

Yes, he must stop—all would be well if he stopped—
the feeling filled his whole being, yet he ran on. Away
from the command, from the desire to submit, from ter-
ror; back toward the garish lights and the mortals.

Hurt? Torril hurt?

Come!

He did not pause to look for Shade. The cat was in
no danger, or not near so much as Torril. As he dis-
tanced himself from the nightwalker his senses returned.
Mortals stared, some called out words unclear, unim-
portant. The quiver bounced crazily at his hip, arrows
rattling as he ran through the streets, not bothering to
hide, always seeking the brighter lights that he knew his
enemy would shun. The huntress would not wish to
spook her herd; he would be safe among them for now.

With fire in his throat he stopped at last, leaning
against comfortless stone, gasping and shaking. A clay
pot at the foot of stone steps held a young tree captive;
he grasped the slender trunk and drank its small life in
a heartbeat, then grieved. He had never before con-
sumed a tree's life. Bad fortune. When he returned
home he would plant a sapling in its stead.

When he returned home. Easy to say, but not so sim-
ple to achieve. He must first kill the nightwalker, and the
nightwalker was a female, and that changed everything.

Tana. Lend me your strength, sister.

This was not the creature who had captured Tana,
tormented her, caused her death. No matter; a life for a
life was the oath, and it was hard enough to hunt a
nightwalker without inquiring its identity. He would kill
this female because she was at hand, and because he
must or be doomed himself.

"Hey! What are you doing there?"

Torril came out of his thoughts with a start, and found
himself leaning against the steps with one hand around
the dead tree's trunk and the other gripping his bow
stone-hard. A human male in dark clothing, with badges
and weapons of office adorning his person, was speaking
at him angrily. Torril let go the tree and backed away,
hiding his bow in shadow. The mortal took a step toward
him, then Shade ran between them, purring and strop-
ping against Torril's legs. He reached down to scratch
the cat, watching the mortal from the corner of his eye.
The man seemed to relax. While Shade flirted with the
mortal, coaxing him to bend and pet, Torril slipped into
shadow and away.

Down an alley, over a fence, back in darkness. Deep
breath of freedom. He needed to replenish his energy
before he could finish this hunt. He needed green, but
he dared not open his mind to inquire where to find a
mass of trees, for he was both hunter and hunted now.

He found his way into a neighborhood of tall houses
with small gardens, separated from the street by a low
wall of bricks. Torril stepped over it into a patch of
sanctuary; vines just starting to flame with autumn,
clumps of tame flowers, and evergreen bushes shorn to
peculiar shapes. He sank to the ground, leaned against
the vine-covered wall—eyes nearly closed but watchful
lest the mortals behind their stone blocks should wake—
and caressed leaves with either hand, drinking deeply of
the garden's strength, yet not too deeply. Control; that
was the difference between the nightwalkers and his
People. Control and compassion. He would kill no plant,
waste no life. He took only what each could spare,

194

Part Nagle

reaching through the soil beneath him to the roots of
the neighboring gardens.

A shudder passed through him as he slowly let go the
tension that gripped at his shoulders. Shade joined him
with a rustle and thump, flicked his tail in greeting, and
padded to a bush to explore its smells.

The nightwalker was searching for him, Torril knew.
Fear prickled up his arms as he thought of facing her
again. Avoid the eyes. Yes, but what if she chose not to
mesmerize him, merely to kill? Immortals still bled; she
could strike from behind, and consume his life in
moments.

Pray that she does, if she catches you.

Tana had not been so lucky. Nearly a year had gone
by from the time she was taken until her escape. She
had been given up for lost by her kindred, and then one
morning, early, in the moist of a howling rainstorm—

Torril pushed himself to his feet. No rest, not until
she was avenged. His kin had spent a year in hell. He
would waste no more darkness.

Street emptied into silent street. The gardens left be-
hind, there was no more life around him, only the dark,
dead eyes of the mortals' dwellings. Shade followed in
silent resignation.

Ahead at a crossing, a single tree, gnarled and scant
of leaves. A bird sat upon a twisted branch, and Torril
dared a query.

More trees?

His answer was a raw squawk as the bird took wing.
It cried again, circling, then dropped toward him.
Shade's hiss came as one with his realization—too late,
both—she transformed as she fell toward him, naked
and horrible.

Eyes! Torril rolled aside, scraping a knee against the
hard street, flinging up his bow to ward her off. He heard
the wood splinter as his arm was struck painfully to the
ground, the nightwalker's weight atop it. Free hand to
his waist for the knife; a slash, a hiss, and the weight
was gone. He staggered up, keeping his gaze away from
her face, and wound up staring at pale breasts instead.
Ice-tipped, yet they stirred something in him. Her body
was firm, her waist slender, hips a welcoming bowl. She

KIND HUNTER

195

raised a bleeding hand to lick the cut he'd given her,
and his eyes flicked to her face before he could check
them, glimpsing a smile. He tore his attention away and
looked at the knife in his hand; cold silver, harsh under
the dim chemical lights of the mortals' city.

She's not attacking. The thought didn't comfort him.
The blade in his hand began trembling. She smelled
good.

The broken bow dropped to the ground. She stepped
over it, bare white feet on rough pavement. He could
hear her breath, she was that near.

You're a pretty one.

Her thoughts were too strong to be blocked. Torril
aimed a blow with the knife and watched in horror as
his hand gently yielded up the blade to his enemy in-
stead, she turned it this way and that in the light, sending
glints off the blade, then dropped it on the ground.

Look at me.

With all his being, Torril resisted. He kept his eyes on
the ground, saw her place a dainty foot between his
boots. Lustful imaginings flowed through his unwilling
mind and aroused an urgent response from his body. He
strove to move his feet, her soft hissing laughter mocking
him, her hunger washing through his thoughts, tainting
them. How wonderful it would feel to take her, here,
now, under the black night while the stupid mortals slept
in their dead houses. How delightful to become hers, to
hunt no more and care no more, to live only for their
mutual pleasure, days, weeks, years of it. She was beauti-
ful, she was strong, she would bear strong children.

Not by me!

In desperation he wrenched a foot away from the
pavement. He stumbled backward, nearly falling, a hand
thumping into his quiver and his back coming up against
something hard.

The tree. With a wordless cry he sucked its strength—
all of it, years of growth, season on season of strength—
and in one vicious thrust repulsed the nightwalker's
mind.

His hand drew an arrow and he flung himself forward,
stabbing up beneath her ribs with the slender oak shaft,
feeling it crack as her shriek rilled his senses, wild elation

196

Pati Nagle

sweeping through him. Deeper, deeper he pushed the
broken arrow through the blood that slickened his hand.
She clung to him, howling, weakening, falling.

He let go the arrow. No more than two hand spans
protruded from her body, heaving as she gasped her last
breaths. He looked in her eyes then. Beautiful, dark
eyes; they had no more power to control him. They ac-
cused him instead, and he knew he would remember
them always. That was the price of his oath.

The life faded from her face. She no longer saw him,
no longer was something to fear. Death drew a dull film
over her eyes.

Torril's senses returned all at once; he felt the cold-
ness of the predawn air in his lungs as he breathed sharp
and fast, heard the dry rustle of dead leaves overhead,
smelled blood. He picked up the knife, reached down
and gathered the nightwatker's ginger hair in one hand,
and severed it from her head with one stroke. He faced
the hoary tree whose life had saved him—the tree the
nightwalker had perched in to hunt him—and saw its
leaves had turned paper-white. He draped the tresses
over its branches; at dawn they would crumble into ash
and blow away along with the nightwalker's body, leav-
ing no trace of her existence.

He looked down at her again; a pale, broken girl, slim
like an elf-maid, reminding him uncannily of Tana in her
funeral-boat. He'd stood in the rain and watched the
river take his sister and her child—the child Tana had
killed with her own hand—the infant got on her by her
nightwalker captor. Slaying it had been her last act be-
fore death claimed her, that stormy dawn.

No hint of rain now. He kicked gently at the night-
walker's body with a booted toe. He had not wanted to
hunt—and had dreaded killing—one of his own kind,
however distantly related. They were more alike than
he'd realized, perhaps. In the end, he had enjoyed it.

Shade came out of the shadows, padded silently to
within an arm's length of the nightwalker's body and
sniffed the air, then hissed softly.

Bad thing. Go home now?

Torril pulled the white band from his brow and
dropped it beside the pale body.

Yes.

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough won a Nebula award in 1989
for her novel The Healer's War, which was based on her
experiences as an Army nurse in Vietnam. She has collabo-
rated on three books with Anne McCaffrey, the most recent
being Space Opera. She lives in Washington with four cats,
Kitty-bits, Popsicle, Trixie and Treat.

Squatting around the campfire, their caravans shelter-
ing them from a strong north wind, Romany's people
planned their passage the next day into Aire as carefully
as Choomia would lay out the cards for a rich client.
Romany, who had been gifted with clear sightedness at
her christening, saw fear in the eyes of even the strong-
est men.

This puzzled her. She was excited, herself, to be
spending her fifteenth birthday in a place she had never
been before. She hoped the gloom she saw in the faces
of the men and the tightness in the mouths of the women
would not spoil her birthday party.

"Mama," she said to Choomia, the only mother she'd
ever known. "What's to worry them in Aire? It's only
elves there, isn't it? That's •
that Misha said had the mu;
Misha was nearly as tail a:
onto his forehead and dark
he looked at her. His voic*
no longer squeaked like th*
age. Misha did not make ft
her   And Misha was not	^ * p „ Syes. "Hush

r,yet- -	L u            IS*!*® do we all
Choomia, sitting with he           " a ^eautifitl people,
caravan as she embroidered           3 ^nore of it. You've

seen them behead

198

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

new scarf a farmer's wife had thrown away, pursed her
lips and did not look at Romany. The firelight flicked
shadows on her face. She needed little light to sew. The
pattern was from her mother's mother and she had been
sewing it onto skirts and scarves, shawls and blankets all
her life. Just as Romany was admiring this skill, Choo-
mia pricked her finger, cursed, and sucked the blood
from the prick. She set aside the sewing then, so as not
to get it bloody, and gave Romany a look hard and
scornful. "Only elves? And what is it you think elves
are, daughter?"

Romany hadn't thought much about what they were.
But she knew what they looked like. "They're beauti-
ful," she said without hesitation. It was the height of
them you noticed first—long bones of arm and leg mak-
ing them tall and straight as lances, unlike her people.
No matter how hard they worked, the folk in Romany's
band let their bodies subside into whichever shape na-
ture cared to bend them by the time they were in their
twenties. But the elves were different. The teeth in their
mouths were straight, never crooked or missing, and
white as the snow on the mountain tops. While Romany's
teeth were good enough, those of the people around her
blackened and broke until they looked like headstones
in a poorly kept graveyard. Even on the young ones,

Choomia made as if to fling the sewing at her. "Beau-
tiful, is it? Have I not taught you better than that? That's
not beauty, that's glamourie, girl. A two-bit wizard's
trick done with fairy gold and double-edged words to
blind the eye of the stupid."

"Mama," Romany said gravely, looking down at her
mother. "I am not stupid, you know. And I won't argue
about what I don't understand. That welt you have
taught me. But we've seen them in the towns sometimes,
at least, folk I've been told are elfin, going about per-
fectly ordinary tasks, and they still look beautiful."

"What have you ever seen them do that's ordinary?"
Choomia demanded. "Slop pigs? Relieve themselves?"

Romany tried to think of something. "Drunk. I've
seen one drunk. And even drunk he staggered graceful-
like. And when he drooled it wasn't even disgusting—
sort of like this wee stream trinkling down the crevasses

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199

in his face. And there was this lady shopping in the
market for vegetables. They looked like gold in her
hands—long, slender hands they was and moved like
swans on a still pool. And aye, I've heard them fiddle,
as good as Timoteo, only different."

"That's ordinary, is it, to you? Aye, I suppose you
know no better. But playing music and dancing, drinking
and whoring and throwing their gold about buying the
fruits of other lands, these are things they like to do.
They do nothing that they dislike, the elves. They feed
off the labor of others."

And what do we do? Romany asked herself, we trav-
eling people, begging for the bread baked by the farm-
wife, taking the odd sheep or horse fed by the settled
people, .charging them the gold their sweat had earned
them for fortunes that were nothing but fantasies to
scare more gold from them. But she didn't say this,
never a word. Such thoughts were treason, the sort of
thing the settled people jeered at them with and the
polis said when breaking up their caravans and shifting
them in the middle of the night in driving rain from the
only shelter they could find.

That was the sort of thing had led them to decide to
cross into Aire after all. "It's different there now. They
welcome us." Zoltan of the Loch Quay band had told
them when the bands met briefly at a crossroads. Ro-
many's people had been traveling night and day for
nearly a week then, for always there were angry farmers
and their sons, polis, and guardsmen who would not let
them rest. Two horses died of exhaustion and Mara's
old mother.

"But Zoltan says they'll make us welcome," Romany
added this information to make Choomia tell her more.

"Make us slaves more likely, to do their dirty work,"
Choomia said bitterly.

"But Zoltan's people weren't made slaves," Romany
insisted.

The firelight flickered in Choomia's dark eyes. "Hush
now, you. That's enough of you. Well enough do we all
know why you'd defend these bloody beautiful people.
You being as you are, but I'll hear no more of it. You've
seen them fiddle, but never have you seen them behead

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an old woman or tear a child from the arms of its mother
as they slew all the poor babe's kin?"

"No, I never heard that, of all the tales I've heard
around the campfire," Romany said stoutly. Choomia
was not above a bit of exaggeration to win an argument,
and Romany didn't quite believe her. "When did you
see such a thing, Mama?"

Choomia shrugged. "Not 1, of course. I never did. But
the mother of my own mother, now, she was there, hid-
ing under the bodies of her uncles. You have heard the
stories too, child. Who do you think the men are speak-
ing of when they tell the trickster stories against the
giants or sing the victory songs of our heroes? And how
do you think we come to own the road and no more
when once our people roamed our own lands without
interference? But I'd never expect you to understand,
being as you are."

Better Mama should have flown at her with clenched
fists than sent her to bed with that, Romany thought as
she wept herself to sleep that night, the voices of her
people still chattering around the fire like horses whin-
nying before a storm.

Usually, it was agreed that Romany's monstrousness
was not spoken of, or Choomia would tear a strip off
the speaker, be it man, woman or child. For Choomia
herself to refer to it, even indirectly, was very mean,
especially when she did it over perfectly innocent ques-
tions. It wasn't Romany's fault that she was so differ-
ent—so disfigured and ugly and outsized. Her great
height was the least of it. The growth on her forehead,
the hair so wiry-curly that even the walnut dye it needed
to make it properly black as a gypsy girl's should be
didn't tame it, the juice and mud that had to go on her
wormy-white skin to keep the sun from crisping her red
as a cherry, these all told her how different she was.
Each time they crossed a lake or a clear spot in a river,
her own huge mud-colored reflection taunted her with
her ugliness and difference. What would she know about
beauty indeed?

In the morning they labored up the mountains and
through the slit between them that formed the passage
to Aire. Behind them they left the land where the sky

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201

was always gray and rumbling, the ground always
muddy, the crops were stunted for lack of sunlight and
where their belongings always smelled of mold.

Romany was the last through, since she made many
trips back to help the other women and children climb.
Bigger than most of the men as she was, she was also
stronger than most, and she spent most of her long-
anticipated fifteenth birthday looking at the ass-ends of
horses and caravans, soaked to the skin by a new rain-
storm that ran the dye on her skin and hair until it ran
into her eyes and stained her dirty white blouse and
skirts. But that evening, she knew, she would have new
things to wear. Only her scarf and sash, christening gifts,
would remain of her original outerwear. These she knew
she had to wash in soaproot and dried sourfruit peelings
before the festivities began.

Suddenly, as she crested the ridge of the mountain for
the hundredth time that day and finally passed through
the long, chilly, but blessedly dry tunnel formed by the
overhang of the peaks above, the land before and below
her spread out like a dancer's skirts in full twirl.

A rainbow shone above a countryside of a thousand
greens, and skeins of bright birds wove sky to earth.

And the sun was warm, even so late in the day, when
it began staining the sky with rose and tangerine, mir-
rored in the rivers and ponds glittering within the green.

Ahead of her on the steep zigzag downward path, her
people and their once flamboyantly decorated wagons,
now sun and rain-faded, threaded their way to the val-
ley floor.

No longer weary, Romany ran to catch up. Now this,
for sure, was beautiful.

They made camp at the foot of the mountain as the
light was dying. With the other girls, Romany ran off
into the forest to gather firewood, which was plentiful.
Squirrels and rabbits scampered away as she and the
others approached and the night birds had begun to call.
The girls were none too soon returning with the wood,
and darkness was on them before they left the trees.

But as they approached the camp, a fire was already
roaring in the center, and Romany knew at once that
some of the people there were not her own.

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

She was sure of it when she saw that there were about
twenty additional figures standing around, talking to her
relatives. They were tall and fair, and very beautiful in-
deed. But unlike the elves she'd seen in the towns, these
people wore clothing much like her own and that of the
rest of the band, except that theirs was new, the colors
brilliant and the coin and gilt thread embellishments
placed a bit wrong and shining a bit too brightly.

"But, really, you don't have to camp here," said a
beautiful woman whose bright hair was concealed with
a scarf twined with flowers, and from whose dainty ears
dangled large golden hoops suspending little golden bells
that tinkled when she moved her head, as she did often.
"I have a much better spot for you where I live. A shady
glade near a clear stream, with a great deal of grass for
your horses. And, if you'll come, I'll have a wonderful
feast prepared for us all so you can get acquainted
with everyone."

"You are inviting us to your feast, lady?" Timoteo
asked. Romany had never seen him look so bewildered.

"Not "Lady" please. Call me "Rawnie." "

For a moment, Timoteo looked even more confused.
Rawnie meant Lady in the gypsy tongue. But he smiled
and bowed and said, "I am Timoteo, Rawnie. And we
would be honored ..."

Choomia grabbed his arm and jerked him back to her
side, then patted his forearm as if the gesture were affec-
tionate and said, "What my husband means to say, lady,
is that we would be honored except that this is our
daughter's fifteenth birthday and it is a special feast, a
special celebration. You understand?'"

"There will be music?" Rawnie asked.

"Assuredly," Timoteo said.

"Dancing?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good, then we'll be delighted to be your guests this
evening and you can move your camp in the morning
and be mine for a feast tomorrow. Everything you need
will be provided, of course, and you can stay as long as
you like."

Choomia started to protest. Outsiders were not al-:
lowed at the fifteenth birthday celebrations of young;

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203

women. It wasn't proper. Or at least, Romany didn't
think it was. The celebrations were held if at all possible
far from the towns and farmsteads, where no one would
come asking for a fortune or a potion, or to hear the
violins or see the dancing.

But now Timoteo grabbed Choomia's patting hand in
his own and squeezed so that Choomia gave a little gasp.
"What my beloved wife means to say, Lady Rawnie, is
that we are speechless with honor to have you here to
celebrate Romany's birthday. Perhaps such a great lady
as yourself will even have a small gift to ease her way
into womanhood?"

"Perhaps," Rawnie said, her smile slight but lovely as
a sliver of moon reflected in a lake. "Are you going to
begin soon?"

"You have built the fire for us already, so graciously,"
Timoteo said. "Our feast is but poor fare for such gentil-
ity as yourselves, but . . ."

"Oh, don't worry," said a seemingly young man who
wore a woman's hipscarf over his trousers. "Our Phurai
Dai always manages somehow, don't you, Rawnie?"

Romany eyed him curiously. He was an odd-looking
fellow, and for more reasons than that his dress was
peculiar. He was shorter than most of the elves, wiry
and thin rather than willowy slender, and his face had
an expression that was at the same time constantly in-
quisitive and comical. His movements were quick and
abrupt, unlike the flowing grace of the other elves, and
his hair, though fair, had a reddish cast to it that glowed
in the firelight. Rather like what she had seen of her
own when the dye faded. Though hers always looked
dingier. He saw her staring and winked at her, as if he'd
told a bawdy joke only she would understand. She
quickly looked away.

Timoteo released his wife's hand, and Choomia beck-
oned to Romany to join her at the caravan.

"You can't become a woman all dirty and smelling
as you do," Choomia told her, fury Romany could not
understand making her mother's voice clipped and
harsh. "I won't have your new clothes stinking before
you've worn them an hour. Go find a stream and wash.
Here are your new clothes. Hold them away from you."

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

Romany dived headfirst into the caravan to find her
supply of walnut hull dye for her hair and skin. The little
pots she carried it in were empty,.

"I can't wash," she said. "I'm out of dye and in the
dark, I won't be able to find the right trees, even if we
had time to make more."

"You won't need it tonight," Choomia said, mysteri-
ously. "This is your fifteenth birthday. You should be as
you were born to be."

"But—" But I'm ugly, Romany thought. You've al-
ways said I needed the dye because I'm ugly.

"Hurry, now. Do you want to stay a girl forever? Now
take these, but mind you—"

She put her hand over Romany's, "Wash out your old
bandanna and hip shawl and wear them under the new.
Your other christening gifts I will give you at the fire."

"Yes, Mama," Romany replied. She grabbed the pile
of new clothing and ran back to the woods, to a stream
she'd spotted while gathering kindling.

She washed her body, hair, and dirty clothing, trying
especially hard to get the dirt out of her old scarf and
hip wrap. From what she could tell in the moonlight,
both of them cleaned up better than she did. The bumpy
scar on her forehead was much sorer than usual and
when she put her fingers to it, she found that the skin
had split back and there was an inner core, very hard.
It probably looked horrible. She wished it was daylight
so she could see. But her scarf would conceal it anyway.

As usual, the dye did not come completely off her
skin or out of her hair. She hoped she wasn't going to
be streaky and blotchy for days, but Choomia was right.
In the dark, it wouldn't be too noticeable, and tomorrow
she could look for walnut trees and the other ingredients
she needed for dyes. She put on her new scarlet skirt
with Choomia's gilt roses around the hem, and her saf-
fron colored blouse with the red ribbon and the gilt roses
down the sleeves. Her old scarf dried out almost com-
pletely in a time that was so short as to seem magical,
and after tying it on, she covered it completely with the
black scarf Choomia had been working on the night be-
fore, now embellished around the fold with gold coins.
Even when wet, her hair began frizzing into a fan down

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205

her back and she combed it with her fingers before
braiding it into a single tail, a process not much easier
than taming a young horse. Finally, she tucked the braid
into the back of her blouse, so that nothing showed
under the scarf.

Her old flowered hip wrap she knotted over her skirt
and then the new one, of blue-green cloth completely
worked with Choomia's golden roses. Her flowered wrap
she had had since she was a baby and it was small, so
nothing of it showed beneath the new blue one. She ran
barefoot back to camp.

Timoteo was waiting where the firelight faltered.
"About time you got here, chavi," he said, calling her
by the gypsy name that meant "daughter." "We waited
for you to eat the luck cake, but those other ones," he
nodded toward Rawnie and her entourage, "they made
food come from nowhere. Only your mother's scoldings
have kept our band from joining in while you primped."
His tone was jovial, however, and he touched her shoul-
der with tenderness and pride as he herded her back
into the circle of firelight.

The luck cake was ready by then, made with nuts Ro-
many had ground herself over the last few weeks, and
filled with berries and fruits that symbolized different
virtues, talents and gifts—a bit of peach for smooth skin,
apple for good health, raisin for long life, cherry for a
happy marriage, and so forth.

With this cake the girl becoming a woman gave gifts
to her family and friends, as they had given gifts to her
upon her christening. Older unmarried girls received the
first pieces, followed by younger girls, then the Phurai
Dai if she was present, the girl's parents, other elders,
and finally the boys, one of whom usually declared him-
self as husband for the girl. Sometimes it was his parents
who declared him. But usually he would not speak or
be spoken for until the girl gave him, of all the boys,
the first piece of her luck cake—usually the one marked
so that she knew it had the cherry in it.

Gypsy girls married young and had many children.
Romany didn't know what she thought of that. She liked
children and helped with the young ones of other fami-
lies, but her own parents had no other offspring. Most

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

other girls carried a younger brother or sister on each
hip and several tugging at their skirts. Romany would
rather practice knife play with the boys or ride the
horses grazing in the fields the band passed. Especially
if Misha was watching.

She had passed out several slices of cake to the people
in the crowd and was holding one, the one with the
cherry, searching for Misha's face, when it was taken
from her hand, and the elf with the reddish hair and the
woman's hip shawl said, "Rawnie has been telling us all
about traditional luck cakes." He popped it in his mouth
and then looked at her as if she were a horse who had
just performed a clever trick. "Umm, delicious, dear. I
could have done without the cherry, though."

Misha, behind him, glared at Romany and turned
away, stalking to where his parents stood, also glaring.
Romany stared helplessly back at them and shrugged.
Surely they could see it was a mistake. They didn't think
she was going to marry that runty elfin show-off, did
they? He didn't even know what he'd done. Choomia
stuck her hands in, pulled out another piece, and showed
Romany the cherry in her hand before she inserted it
into the bottom of the cake. She then went over to
Misha's family and gave him the cake while she chat-
tered at his parents. But no declaration was made.

"These things happen sometime," Timoteo said to
her, "Your mother and I will handle it," and covered up
the awkward silence by beginning a tune on his violin.

This was the cue for Romany to dance. Tonight, she
would be the only one to dance. She had not been a
bad dancer when she was younger. She used to have
some lovely sandals that had been given her for her
christening, and her feet had been quick and clever when
she wore them. She did the twirls that were like the
spinning of the wagon wheels going down a fast hill, the
swooping dives of the raven who was the special bird of
her people, the leaps of the mountain goat from ridge
to ridge, the two moves simulating the dramatic changes
life could take, for the better, the worse, the speed of
soaring youth, the descent to the grave. Since she had
grown so very large, she could no longer wear her san-
dals and was no longer quite as deft-footed as the goat

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267

in the dance. Fortunately, though, her body was supple
from the constant exercise and her dancing had always
been more than presentable.

This night, it began well, building from the slow sinu-
ous movements of the opening melody lines, the river
of life, the slither of serpent and lizard hugging the earth,
the ribbon-line progress of the caravans across the coun-
tryside. On it slid into the pulsing contortions and acro-
batics of the middle measures where birth took place
and life began. At fast the fiddle's flying bow drove her
into the frantic soaring spiral of the main body of the
tune, where the melody galloped like runaway horses,
and the dance depicting the pace and substance of a
gypsy woman's life turned the fire's shadow into a flick-
ering pantomimed prayer to the moon and the Mother
of all.

Spinning and diving, jumping and spinning again, she
grew entranced by the glitter of the golden roses at her
hips, on her hem, flashing when she raised her arms. The
onlookers clapped time, nearly drowning out the violin.

Timoteo slid into another tune and did not bother
with the slow beginning but went right into the fast bit,
and the roses sparkled in the glow of the campfire and
the clapping seemed to come from her own bare feet as
she pounded the time into the ground with each revolu-
tion of her body, each dip, dive, and leap. Someone—
Choomia—tossed her tambourine to her and she caught
it in midair, its jingle and thump amplifying the sound
of her feet and the clinking together of the coins on
her scarves.

She leaped the fire once, twice, and as she was about
to leap again, heard a second violin joining the first,
playing another, more ornamented melody line weaving
all around Timoteo's music in a manner that confused
her feet and had nothing to say about gypsy life. She
turned to the fire and saw someone else leap across it
and saw other bodies twisting in its light, dancing and
whirling with abandon but no meaning.

The melody of her father's violin stopped as suddenly
as if it had fallen from a cliff while the other went on
jpr a time, unbalanced and frantic, the movements of
the dancers meaningless and at times lascivious as they

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

whirled and leaped the fire. AH of these were long pale
people, weaving in the shrinking circle of firelight like
white shadows among the black.

The clapping stopped, except for that from slender,
pallid hands. The jingle of Romany's coins and her tam-
bourine was reflected only in the cacophonous tinkling
of little bells.

"Stop!" her mother's voice commanded. "What is it
that you think you're doing?"

Rawnie raised her hand and the clapping, violins,
dancing, and leaping were sliced to stillness and silence.
"Is there something the matter?"

"Yes, that playing and dancing. What was that
about?" Choomia demanded.

"Why, my people simply wanted to join yours in cele-
bration. You see, I've been telling them about the gyp-
sies I knew long ago, of the dances and the music, and
we've been trying a bit on our own. Don't you like it?"

"Like it? Like it?!" Choomia sputtered, but Timoteo
cut in smoothly, remembering the proffered stream and
grass, the feast and the long stay without shifting.

Gently, diplomatically, but with sadness and disap-
pointment seeping through in the obsequious expression
he assumed with outsiders, "Lady Rawnie, ordinarily we
would have been pleased to have your most graceful
people join ours in the music and dance, but this, you
see, was my daughter's celebration—her fifteenth
birthday."

"Oh, yes, and I have thought of a wonderful gift!"
Rawnie said, clapping her hands like a child, so enthusi-
astically that her earrings swung and their bells tinkled,
like icicles breaking into snowmelt.

"I hope it is. Lady, for you see, her cake is given only
to her family, her traveling companions . . ."

"But we will become your traveling companions!"
One of the ladies cried happily.

"Oh, I'd love that, wouldn't you, Fenelia?" another
one chattered to the lady next to her.

"Oh, yes, the romance of it! The campfires, the music,
the telling of fortunes, the . . ."

"And her intended husband," Choomia added with

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209

force. "The morsel of luck cake your friend took was
supposed to have gone to Misha . . ."

"I didn't know these people were so selfish," the elf-
runt said. "You told us, Rawnie, that they shared every-
thing. I didn't think they'd grudge me a little piece of
cake after you invited them to one of our feasts!"

"The highborn gentleman had no way of knowing,
wife," Timoteo said.

"No, I didn't," the runt said indignantly. "Elfish is
never selfish . . ." his friends tittered at his lame witti-
cism, "And with what we've offered you . . ."

"Most graciously, too, good sir. I'm sure that Mis-
ha's family . . ."

"Misha's family would never allow him to marry with
such ill omens as have occurred this night," his father
declared, stepping into the firelight. "And my boy does
not care for your daughter, not in that way. Who wants
a wife who coutd break him in half? We're leaving this
land tonight. Any who wish to come with us are wel-
come." And he followed the insult by spitting into the
fire and stalking off to gather his wife, Misha and his
unmarried siblings back to their wagon, where Misha's
younger brother was already hitching the horses.

Romany saw Misha cast a backward glance toward the
fire, where she stood with her own parents and Rawnie.

"Oh, dear," Rawnie said as if she'd spilled a bit of
food on her lily-white bosom, "I don't quite understand
what we've done wrong, I'm afraid, but I'm terribly
sorry."

Timoteo began explaining it to her in a soft voice
while Choomia fumed.

Romany was none too happy herself. Of all the boys
she'd met, Misha was the only one who seemed to like
her at all, who didn't seem overawed by her size and
skill with knives and horses. He had been her only pros-
pect, and now he wasn't. Furthermore, she felt like an
idiot after what his father had said, as if thinking Misha
would have her was all her idea. It didn't take high ro-
mance to make a marriage among her people—just two
folk of opposite sexes who got on reasonably well. If
Misha'd taken the cake the elf got, the deal would have

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been made, palms spat upon and hands shaken, as sure
as a horse trade. But it was all ruined now.

It wasn't as if she wanted to get married and have
brats right away. It was just that a proper gypsy woman
needed a man like she needed a scarf and a tambourine.
And Misha was better than most. She turned away,
sadly, and saw that the Lady Rawnie was no longer lis-
tening to her father, but staring at her.

As if Timoteo were not speaking, Rawnie ignored him
and took both of Romany's large, capable and callused
hands in her own soft, slender ones. Her rings, real gold
with real precious stones, Romany thought, not gilded
pot metal and glass like Choomia's, shot stars off into
the night, shaming the puny pallid ones in the sky.

"My dear, I didn't know. I am so sorry, but I promise
I will do all I can to make it up to you. . . ." Her voice
was more melodious than the violin music and her eyes
were practicaHy compelling Romany to say she forgave
her.

Instead, Romany felt herself blushing under her
splotches of dye and sputtered, "It's nothing. Didn't
want a husband . . ."

To her surprise, Choomia put her arm protectively
around Romany's shoulders. "That's right, darling child.
My Romany is too good for those people. Excuse us,
Lady Rawnie," she said, her anger having vanished as if
by sleight of hand. "But where do you live? We will
sleep for a while and come to your house tomorrow."

"Oh, it's the castle on the first mountaintop after you
pass Glenn Bloodbath. If it's misty, sometimes it disap-
pears, but you can ask anyone. All the locals know us.
Otherwise, you'll see it easily. Can't miss it." She
clapped those delicate hands once more and cried to her
entourage. "Come people, our friends have to get some
sleep. We'll continue the festivities at home."

"I thought you said gypsies knew how to party . . ."
complained the runt with a backward glance at the rest
of the feast. But they left.

When they were well gone, the women sat on one side
of the fire and the men on the other. Timoteo played
his violin low and in a pensive manner while listening
to the talk swirling around him.

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211

The women tried to reassure Romany, but weren't
very good at it. She knew she'd never fit in. There was
speculation as to what it all meant, how it could be made
to fit into what they knew already. Which led to tales of
their own fifteenth birthdays and all that had come to
them since.

At some point, Romany dozed off, tired from her long
day. When she opened her eyes again, Choomia had left
the fire.

"I guess I'd better get some sleep, too," Romany said.

"What's the hurry?" Dudee, Misha's married sister,
asked. "On my fifteenth birthday, I danced all night."

"Yes," Romany said. "But we're going to that lady's
castle tomorrow and I want to wash again in the morning."

"You'll catch a chill and make yourself sick with all
that washing, mark my words," said her aunt on her
father's side. "Anyway, it won't be a long trip, if those
fine lords and ladies will make it and still have the night
to revel in."

But it was a long trip. A very long trip.

Romany had not had the whole night to sleep either.
When she returned to the wagon, Timoteo was also
there, snoring, but Choomia was laying out the cards.
When Romany asked her what they said, her mother
shook her head and looked grim, and rather sad.

Then she reached into her pocket and held out a small
pendant that was shaped and colored like a shell but
had teeth on one edge, like a comb. "You'd better have
this, I suppose. It's your last christening present. You
had it with you when you came to us."

"What a pretty necklace. Who gave it to me?"

"Some women you'd best hope you never meet. It's
not just jewelry though. It's a comb. Maybe its magic
will straighten out that kinky hair of yours."

Romany took it and slipped it around her neck and
tried to exclaim over it as one was supposed to do over
a present, though truthfully it wasn't nearly as impres-
sive as the necklace of golden coins Dudee had received
on her fifteenth birthday. Her mother was no longer pay-
ing any attention, however, and had returned her gaze
to her cards.

Romany arose very early, compared to the rest of the

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camp, and went back to the woods to look for the walnut
trees for dye. She didn't find the trees, but in daylight
her skin was so blotchy she looked as if she had been
ill for some time. No good getting thrown out of the
villages because they thought she had the plague. Be-
sides, the night was warm, the stream private.

She removed her scarves and unbraided her hair, then
took off her skirts and hip shawls and stepped into the
pool she had used the night before. She kept on her
upper clothing for the moment as the morning was still
cool. She forgot to take off her new pendant too, and
as she stepped into the water, took hold of the necklace,
preparing to remove it and leave it on a rock. But sud-
denly, she found herself slipping, falling, her feet going
out from under her—literally, and herself up to her neck
in the pool. She tried to stand but couldn't, and smacked
her tail in frustration.

Her . . . tail.

Where her feet should have been was a long, scaled
fish tail, glittering like golden coins in the first light of
day. Oh, no! She was even more of a monster than she'd
ever thought! But never mind that. Choomia would kill
her if she ruined her new blouse so soon. Slipping and
sliding, she tore off her upper garments, and the pendant
with them.

When they were over her head and flung safely to
shore, she took a cautious look back to that awful fish
tail and saw only her own usual bare legs and feet,
tucked under her thighs and hips, white and red and
freckled but hardly alarming.

Before anything else strange could happen, she vigor-
ously scrubbed her skin and hair again. This time most
of the dye went away, except for some tiny dark spots
all over her very light skin. When she pulled her hair
forward to braid the ends, she saw that it had washed
out to a very bright red—redder than a fox, though not
so red as, say, a rose. An orangy-coral color, really.
Choomia had always told her it was ugly but privately,
she rather liked it and thought it would be very nice
with her new blouse and skirt if she chose to wear it
loose. But then, that would mark her as different, would

THE GYPSIES' CVRSE	213

be one more thing besides her great lump of a body to
set her apart from her people.

All the flailing around she had done earlier had tan-
gled her hair so badly that the tangles refused to come
free with just her hands. She recalled the pendant comb
and waded to shore and fetched it. Instantly she was
falling into the water again. She peeked down at herself.
The tail was back. She set the comb on the bank, and
her own feet and legs reappeared.

Funny. She should have felt something but her only
indication of the change was the way the bottom of the
pool shifted under her when she switched appendages.
Carefully, she sat her bottom on the bank and picked
up the comb. Now she had a tail dangling in the water.
She thoughtfully combed her hair with the gift, and won-
dered why even a mermaid would give her something
that would make her even more monstrous than she was
already. She pulled the comb free of her hair and looked
at the swirls of pearly pink and blue twining among its
teeth and embellishing the scrolled design in its top. It
was kind of pretty and did look exactly like something
you'd imagine a mermaid having. She wondered how a
mermaid had known about her when she was a baby,
and known her wel! enough to give her such a strange
gift. Ah, well, it would come in handy fording rivers, she
had to admit that.

Suddenly the small, downy hairs on her arms and
torso rose in gooseflesh and not from the cold. She
looked around and the brush rustled. A bird, she
thought, before she heard the giggle. And heard foot-
steps running away. She snatched up her clothes and
pulled them on as quickly as possible, never minding the
headcloth, or thinking to braid her hair again, she ran
back to the camp.

The road to the next village was pleasant indeed, lined
with fruit trees and flowers, the roadbed amazingly
smooth and unrutted. There were not even many large
rocks in the way to impede the wheels.

But it still took the lead caravan three full hours be-
fore it pulled abreast of the outermost house in the vil-
lage. And no castle had yet appeared on the horizon.

Romany was riding inside the caravan today, instead

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of riding one of the horses or walking beside it. Choomia
insisted. "You'll just be upset by people talking of what
happened last night and besides, until we can find more
dye, you'll burn like a bonfire if you're out in the sun."

Privately, Romany thought her mother was ashamed
of her. Her people would make fun of her, she was sure,
over Misha running away and the elves mocking her
dance. She was afraid she'd lose her temper and sweep
up the trail with the first person who opened his mouth
about it. So she stayed in the caravan and tried to enjoy
the ride and soon succeeded.

She found it impossible to dwell on unhappy things
for long, as the day was lovely and Timoteo walked be-
side the horses and played lively tunes on his fiddle to
pick up the pace.

At last they came to the village.

"This is a queer looking place," Romany said to
Choomia through the open front door of the caravan.
The town's rooftops were not tiled or thatched but cov-
ered with grass on which grew gardens of flowers. A
bower of roses grew around each door and each door
itself was red. The windows were covered with some sort
of stuff that shimmered in the light like an insect's wing,
reflecting the colors of the blooms in the flowerboxes
under the windows. "Pretty, though."

"Pretty is as pretty does," Choomia said.

People who were not as tall as elves, or as slender,
but who had nonetheless the pointed ears and the same
make on them, came to the doorways to watch the cara-
vans pass. Some of the people were not truly fair, but
had brown hair. Romany saw no children and no old
people. But at least no one made to call the guards.

"Who are these folk, living here?" she asked Choo-
mia. "They look like common villagers, but I thought
you said all elves were wealthy, and isn't this their
own land?"

"Got to have someone to push around, don't they?"
Choomia said through the side of her mouth not occu-
pied with one of the small cigars she smoked when trav-
eling. "Do you mind the stories told round the fire of
children disappearing? Two things about elves, daughter.
They're immortal and unless they mix quite thoroughly

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

215

with humankind, they can't make children, except by
magic and then only briefly. And that's strange because
in the stories you hear of them from the old ones, they
were always at one another, no more morals than cats."

As they rolled past the shops, suddenly people ran
out of the buildings and began jogging along beside the
caravans. Choomia puffed on her cigar and whipped up
the horses, but the nearest merchant said, "Madame, I
mean you no harm. I simply wish to inquire if you've
anything to sell or trade."

"You want to buy a horse? Have your fortune told?"
Choomia asked.

"I was thinking more of—well, one of those lovely
bandanas you ladies wear, or perhaps an authentic
Gypsy tambourine."

"Madame," the man from the other side said, holding
up a pair of earrings with the pretty bells such as Lady
Rawnie had held. "I'll trade you these lovely earrings for
your own. See how they shine? Hear how they tinkle?"

Romany's own were plain small gold hoops, unbe-
fitting the woman she had—well, almost-become last
night. "I'll trade him mine!" she said.

"You will not," Choomia said.

Timoteo was surrounded by people begging, "Master
fiddler, play us a tune, please."

"Oh, yes," the women clapped their hands like
children.

"Their sort do love music," Choomia said, almost soft-
ening toward them.

"I'm a poor man, and my kinfolk and I are weary
from our long journey. Weary and thirsty. And very
very poor."

"Bring his honor a chair!"

"Bring food!"

"Bring wine!"

The pretty people hurried to get all of these things
until every gypsy standing was seated and each person
in the band had a bit of cake and a cup.

"Play for us, please," one especially pretty lady in sil-
very mossy green pleaded.

"Have you a request, pretty lady?" Timoteo asked

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

with a gallantry that did not offend his wife, since such
flattery sometimes gained an extra coin or two.

"Oh, yes! Play an authentic passionate fiery gypsy love
song!" she said, almost on her knees in her effort to
cajole Timoteo, who really needed very little encour-
agement.

He began playing and as he did, the lady began to
mimic gypsy dancers while, behind Timoteo, a man
raised a conch shell above his head.

'What you think you're doing, you?" Choomia de-
manded, snatching the shell and cuffing the man on the
back of the head. "Gonna brain my man, were you?
Take that!"

Timoteo, still playing, his eyes closed and body sway-
ing to his own music, took three steps forward, toward
the gyrating woman, now joined by several friends, also
writhing, and let Choomia handle the situation.

"Madame, please, I was only making a recording of
your husband's music!"

"A recording?"

"In the conch shell. Hold it to your ear."

She did and her glower turned into a smile, "Hey, it's
just like my Timoteo. What is this, an elf trick? You
steal his talent?"

"Goodness no, Madame. I mean to make him famous,
so that his playing will be spread far and wide and last
for generations."

"And how about his poor family?" she demanded.
"His loving wife and young daughter? How about us?
When my man plays, people throw coins—"

Or rocks, Romany thought to herself.

"How we gonna get coins every time someone hears
this thing? Pretty soon people will not come to hear
my man play, they will only stay home and listen to
sea shells."

What she hadn't noticed, while she was arguing with
the man, was that three other men were holding up
conch shells too, well out of her reach.

Romany looked out the back door of the caravan. At
every other wagon, scarves and earrings, necklaces and
shawls, even skirts, sandals, boots and trousers, were

THE GYPSIES' CVRSE

217

changing hands—sometimes for elfin clothing, sometimes
for coin.

But Choomia would have none of it, and clicked to
her horses and drove forward, forcing the next wagon
forward—it would not have dared to stand still when
Choomia wished to go, even though the Whelan family
was still trading clothing for all manner of other articles.
They sped up rapidly enough when Rodrigo Whelan saw
the look on Choomia's face and the way her horses were
nose to back door with his caravan.

The others followed suit and Timoteo abandoned the
dancers to swing up beside his wife. "There's a first," he
said. "We've never been run out of town by admirers
before."

"Pah!" Choomia said, and spat from the side of her
mouth that did not hold her cigar. "How do we know
we weren't cheated? If these people wanted the clothes
off our back and the rings from our fingers and ears,
how do we know the Rawnie wouldn't pay more?"

"She didn't say anything about it last night," Timoteo
reminded her. "Maybe this was our only chance."

It seemed as if it might be when, two hours later, they
still had not seen Glenn Bloodbath, the village of which
Rawnie had spoken, nor her mountain, nor her castle.
Choomia ordered the wagons stopped and went to each
of her people to assess what they had let go of and what
they had taken in trade.

"What you gonna do with that eif-dress?" she asked
Misha's eldest sister, holding the tiny dress up to her
own stocky frame and mincing around with it. "It'll tear
first time you try to climb a mountain in it."

"I'm going to cut it up for scarves and shawls. Maybe
sell them somewhere else here," Misha's sister said.

Her youngest son ran back to the wagon in time to
hear her words, "You better hurry then, Mama. There's
another village around the next bend, and way off, the
hill with the castle on it where that lady is making us
the feast."

Romany tried to sneak out the front of the caravan.
This being a woman was getting tedious. She was usually
the advance scout for the band, riding ahead and spying

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

out the territory. Red hair or no red hair, she wasn't
going to be cooped up any longer.

But Choomia had eyes in the back of her head and
saw her. "Romany, back in the wagon." And, like every-
one, Romany did as Choomia said.

"Now then, all of you, listen to me. See what you're
offered, yes, but trade nothing until you see the going
price—not that there's much left. Instead we play music
for them, tell fortunes for them, dance for them, make
up authentic Gypsy stories they can use to scare their
children. And we get gold in return. Bite the coins to
make sure. Elven gold has a way of changing to leaves
as soon as you're well away from the giver."

Everyone knew better than to argue. Besides, their
professional pride was challenged. Usually, they had
trouble getting the towns to allow them to do anything
within the city limits. Here were folk begging for what
they had to offer. Little clay jugs were rapidly filled with
water, colored with a bit of vegetable dye and tied with
red or black thread, labeling them love potions or curses.
Girls practiced their dance steps and those who knew a
few tricks, a bit of knife throwing, sword swallowing, fire
eating, and of course, fortune telling, sharpened up their
skills, so to speak, and put on their finest and brightest
clothing (those who still had possession of it after the
trading at the last village). Their best entertainments
were usually reserved for themselves, but here was a
chance to show off for paying customers. And perhaps
another cup of wine and a cake or two to tide them over
until they could get to the feast awaiting them at the
castle of the beautiful lady. The transgressions of her
followers were quite forgotten in the excitement.

And so they strode into town, fiddles playing, tambou-
rines jingling, skirts flying in a parade of dance steps,
knives flashing as brightly as their professional smiles,
ready to greet their audience.

Their own music was making such a din it wasn't until
they'd passed the empty houses in the outermost parts
of the village and come close to the square that they
heard the other fiddlers, the other tambourines, the
other bells, and saw the other dancers, performing be-
fore an appreciative crowd. This time the tall slender

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

219

people in the motley improvised gypsy clothing and tin-
kling bells were not fair-haired—they had dyed their hair
black, as Romany usually did, except where hers usually
lay flat and dull and stringy-looking under the dye, theirs
was bright and bouncing with blue and red light, belling
around their heads beneath their headscarves as if it
was natural.

Romany groaned to Choomia, "Oh, no, it's that lot
again."

Choomia apparently had her mind on commerce, for
she was slower than usual. "No, it's not," she said
grimly. "Another band got here first. We never should
have tarried so long in yon first village."

"It's them, I tell you. See, there's that stupid git who
jumped my birthday fire—the wee puckish one who
wears the hip shawl like a woman? Only he's colored
his hair now."

"So he has. Well, you haven't, so keep clear of this.
These ones are no competition for our folk."

And she gave a signal and her own people, who had
stopped their playing, dumbfounded, to watch them-
selves being upstaged, began again. This time they per-
formed with competitive loudness and vigor, the children
going among the crowd and pulling at sleeves and skirts
(and sometimes pockets, though these elfin folk, even
the lower classes, who you'd think would need them,
had an inconvenient lack of pockets, for the most part).

And the audience did come away, looking a bit con-
fused, and a bit put out. The gypsies were more skilled,
but they smelled worse, having been on the road so long,
and not everyone having bathed as frequently as Ro-
many recently had. They were dirtier, raggedier, shorter,
darker, and suspiciously foreign-looking. Their agility
and suppleness was less graceful, fluid and ethereal and
more earthy, more animallike.

"That's disgusting," one woman said of Dudee's most
seductive dance, and the men merely tried to look up
her skirts.

"What need has elfinkind for love potions?" asked a
beautiful maiden Choomia had figured would be a good
' since the vain are always after more admiration,
my glamourie, I can have any lad I want without

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

your fake medicine. Besides, I've tried them all in this
valley. Twice. That fiddler, though, a bit fat and a bit
old, but what wondrous music he makes! It makes me
think we could make beautiful music between us as well.
Hel/o, Grandpapa, want to fiddle around with me,
hmm?" she asked, her melodious voice fairly purring as
she sidled up to Timoteo.

Choomia grabbed her hair.

Then two of the men grabbed Choomia.

Then Timoteo almost forgot himseif and brained one
of them with his fiddle and Romany, quite happily, threw
her dagger and pinned the hair of the sluttish elf to the
nearest hard surface, which happened to be the saddle
of a passing horse. The horse reared and kicked and
whinnied and a free-for-all began.

For just a moment Romany was disappointed. Here
she had thought they might all be like the Lady Rawnie,
silken and gentle acting and soft speaking. But they
brawled as well as anyone, these elves.

Murder was about to happen to someone when the
little leaping fellow with the hip shawl whistled through
his fingers and made everyone stop. "Cut it out, all of
you! You're acting as if you're two jingles short of a
tambourine! We're gypsies, you know. We have certain
standards of behavior to uphold! Where are your man-
ners, your principles?" They ignored him until he finally
bellowed in a tone that started out as a roar and ended
as a squeak. "In the name of my mother, the Lady, I
command you to cease!"

The elfin "gypsies," muttering, clumped back onto
themselves, as much as such graceful creatures could be
said to clump. Melted together, perhaps, was more like
it. Like streams into a pond. A very reproachful and
resentful pond.

Before Romany's folk could press their advantage, the
fellow continued, saying, "These people are guests of
the Lady and are not to be molested but given every
courtesy as we escort them to the feast in their honor.
Madame," he said, addressing Choomia, "I am Nicabar.
son of Rawnie. If you will allow me the pleasure of your
companionship for the short and pleasant remainder ot

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

221

your journey, it, will be my honor to lead the way to my
mother's estates."

"That's all very well," Choomia said huffily. "Just
don't try none of your fiendish seductive elfin tricks on
me, my lad, or I'll thump you good. I've heard every
line there is in my time." With that, Choomia flipped
her graying braid from where it had tangled under her
scarf, put her nose disdainfully into the air, and clucked
to the horses.

"Not proper gypsies at all," the elf-woman who had
admired Timoteo whispered spitefully, pouting to her
friends. "Proper gypsies believe that it's better to cajole
an enemy than to go about sticking dagger's in people's
hair and frightening the horses."

Their self-appointed protector shook his finger scold-
ingly at her. "That's enough of that, Dooreya," he said.
Then he mounted a fine black horse covered in tinkly
silver bells and rode along beside the wagon. Timoteo
had climbed up beside Choomia, since the idea was to
put the town behind them as quickly as possible.

"Fine horse, that" Timoteo said to his wife. "I wonder
if it would like to travel with real gypsies, eh, my love?"

"Psst," Romany said to her father, as she would never
have dreamed of speaking to her mother, "Ask that buf-
foon where he got his hair dye."

But before Timoteo could speak, Nicabar began firing
a barrage of questions at him. "Why does your daughter
hide in the wagon? Is she shamed because her lover ran
away? Will you be able to make another match for her?
Will she mate with the boy before or after the marriage?
Is it necessary that she be a virgin?"

He asked so many things, all of them very personal
and about matters that even one's own kinfolk didn't
ask, that none of them had much time to think up good
evasive lies. Timoteo answered by telling him about his
courtship of Choomia and then she chimed in telling of
jne great amount of wealth Timoteo had had to prove
ne had in order to win her.

The fact that they answered different questions than
ne d asked didn't seem to bother Nicabar. He listened,
n>s pomty ears seeming to quiver with attention, while

moteo, Choomia and soon people from every caravan

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

in the band bragged and complained, dropped dramatic
and mysterious sounding hints or simply explained about
all aspects of their lives on the road.

Once Romany thought she had a chance of getting a
word in and stuck her head out far enough to ask,
"What did you use to dye your hair?" but Nicabar was
turned away listening to Dudee's husband Giorgio,
whose voice was very quiet, explain the symbols and
colors painted on the sides of caravans.

The people were so busy talking they didn't seem to
wonder, as she did, why it was only now that Lady Raw-
nie's hill and castle were appearing at the end of the
road. She asked Timoteo, who shrugged, clearly annoyed
that she was intruding while he was trying to listen to
the conversation churning around the elf. "Magic," he
said shortly. "Elves are full of it."

The castle grew rapidly larger until she could make
out the spires and crenellations, the towers and the walls,
all gleaming with a soft palette of blues and greens, as
if the castle were made of water.

As they drew nearer to the castle, delicious smells
assailed their nostrils and the sound of musical instru-
ments and tinkling bells filled the air.

"Sounds like they've started the party without us,"
Timoteo said.

After a lengthy and winding climb that crested at a
plateau set slightly lower than the castle, Nicabar led
them to a shady spot by a singing stream. Before they
had the horses unhitched, canopies blossomed among
them like wildflowers, blue and green, red and yellow,
and under these tables were set with golden dishes and
cloths so fine that Choomia said, "It's a shame to eat
off those. They're better than my best skirt. I wonder
what Her Ladyship would take for them?"

Slender elf people interspersed themselves among Ro-
many's folk, pretending to help them make camp but
actually asking questions. The elf women were flirting
with the men and, in truth, the gypsy men didn't discour-
age them.

Twilight was very deep now. "Time to build the fire,"
Choomia said. "Fetch wood, children."

"No," said Lady Rawnie, suddenly appearing from

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

223

under one of the canopies. "Not here. We do not burn
wood in my land. But you'll have your fire all the same."
And she caused one to burst to flaming life in the spot
Choomia had indicated.

Romany peered around the front of the caravan.

"Get back in there," Choomia commanded.

"I can't," Romany insisted. "I've got to go awfully
bad."

"Can't you wait until after dark?"

"No-oo. I've been waiting all day and what with the
jouncing around . . ."

"Your pardon, madame," Nicabar said to Choomia,
as oily as Timoteo sucking up to the squire in a new
town. "But you should allow your daughter freedom of
the camp now."

"Not until dark," Choomia said stubbornly.

"But you see, it never properly gets dark here, not
near Rawnie's castle anyway. She likes twilight and twi-
light it stays."

While they were arguing, Romany slipped her shawl
over her head and ducked out of the back of the cara-
van. She slipped behind the other wagons and horses,
and stayed out of sight until she was well into the woods
bordering the glade and could have a bit of privacy.

After a time she stood with a satisfied sigh and ad-
justed her clothing. It was then that she heard another
rustling, a moss-padded footfall. She stood still. Probably
it was just Choomia, coming to tell her to get back in
the wagon and hide herself some more, which Romany
absolutely did not intend to do.

Nicabar appeared from the brush, the leaves forming
a cap over his head for just a moment. "There you are,"
he said. "I need to have a word with you."

"I'd think you'd have run out by now, with all the
chattering you did on the way here. What do you want?
To know more about the elimination processes of the
female gypsy?"

'There's no need to be snotty," he said. "Not when
i ve come to tell you I've decided to do the right thing.
Besides, you'd hardly qualify if I was studying something
about female gypsies. Most of them, unless my other

224

Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

research is very much mistaken, lack fish tails when
they bathe."

"That was you spying on me, was it, you sawed ofl
excuse for an elf!"

"No need to get personal," he said, grinning and
clearly not offended. "This is a very bad way to begin
our engagement."

"Engagement! You're daft," she said. This fellow wai
not only funny looking, he was full of fancies, and she
meant to take no notice of them. "What do you use tfl
get your hair like that?"

"Black you mean?"

"Yes, and shining and all. Can't be walnut bark."

"It's not," he said. "It's uh—a tribal secret."

"Tribe? What tribe?"

"My mother's."

"That's another thing. How can Rawnie be your
mother? She's an elf, and my mother says elves don't
have children. And you don't look like the other elves.1'

"Well, you don't look like the other gypsies, so I sup-
pose that makes us a good match."

"We are not any kind of a match," Romany said,
swinging around to face him, her fists on her hips. "You
took that cake out of ignorance. It didn't mean
anything."

"How do you know? It meant your intended didn't
think enough of you to accept the piece he was given in
its place and pretend nothing had happened. Face it, big
girl, you don't fit in with the people in your band as it
is. In time you'll be an outcast. It's my fault to some
extent, so I've decided to do the honorable thing, as any
gypsy gentleman would do, and marry you."

"You are not a gypsy gentleman," she said.

"That's what you think. I'm more gypsy than
are."

"Oh, reallyl"  she  asked  sarcastically, wishing sh
wasn't the guest of his mother so she could just put her
fist in his face and be done with his nonsense.

"Really," he insisted in the same tone. "My father was
the King of the Gypsies—a fiddler—not like your father,
young and handsome."

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

225

"My father was young and handsome, too. Now
he's—fatherly."

"Indeed. Well, this fellow wasn't. Yet. My mother fell
in love with him when they were passing through. But
he had already married a woman who couldn't bear chil-
dren properly—she had a deformed, sickly child who had
no brains at all. And so my mother sent me to him and
his wife. They were very good people and I stayed with
them until they died, at which time my mother returned
to get me. While I was with them, I learned all about
being a gypsy and brought our culture back to my moth-
er's people, who, as you see, embrace it."

"Umm hmm, and how old were you when your gypsy
parents died?"

"About three."

"No wonder you ask so many stupid questions and
wear a shawl around your bum like a woman," she said.

But by then their conversation was drowned out by
the sound of fiddle, squeeze box and tambourines, with a
sort of lilting flute in the background. The gentle evening
breezes carried on them delicious aromas, no less lovely
than the music. Roast pheasant, nut-stuffed fishes, can-
died fruits and hot breads, cakes with gilt icing, all man-
ner of wine and beverages were piled high on the tables.
Romany had a hard time believing the time she had
spent in the woods, even arguing with Nicabar, had been
long enough for all of this to be prepared—and largely
consumed. It seemed already as if the festivities had
been going on for hours.

pudee's husband had an elf-woman on his knee. Her
skirts looked like rose petals and little bells tinkled
against her bare midriff when she laughed. Her bodice
looked like two pink painted mushroom tops tied to-
gether with a bit of vine.

The children were clustered around an elfin magician,
rar cleverer than any of the sword swallowers and fire
eaters in their band. Those worthies were too busy im-
pressing the elf girls with their prowess to pay any mind
to the magicians. Dudee was taking flute lessons from a
roan with fair, wavy hair and eyes that bore a calculating
look as his hands strayed away from the flute, ostensibly
to teach her to breathe properly. Miri was teaching that

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

friend of Rawnie's, Fenelia, she called herself, to dance •
properly. Orlende was sharing a pheasant leg with an elf
man who had started at the opposite end of the same
morsel. Meanwhile, the two of them each had a hand
on the thigh of the other. Romany was disgusted. Nica-
bar caught her eye and wiggled his brows suggestively.

At last she saw Choomia and Timoteo drinking and
laughing with Rawnie. As she strode toward them, the
three of them had raised their glasses in a toast.

"There they are now, the happy couple!" Rawnie
cried, laughing, beautifully of course.

"Mama! Papa!" Romany said to her own parents, who
were also laughing as if something was funny. "Not so
fast! I never said I wanted this one." She jerked her
thumb at him.

"What's to say? How do you know what you want
before you've got it, chavi?" Choomia said. "Believe me,
many girls feel this way when they meet their husbands-
to-be for the first time. And yours is from a rich family,
he's clean, not too bad looking, and, uh—" she rose and
pulled her daughter to her to whisper, "he'll take you,
and frankly, having declared yourself and having been \
refused, you're used goods now. No other man of our
people will have you. Romany, my chavi, please, I need
grandchildren. Humor an old woman."

"Yes, indeed," Rawnie put in with an enticing smile,
flashing pearly, gleaming, and now, it seemed to Ro-
many, slightly sharp looking teeth. "Not only is my Nica-
bar a fine, obedient boy, talented, quick and intelligent,;;
he is even willing to follow your tribe's custom of giving
presents to the parents of the bride if they are willing
to follow ours and offer in return a small dowry."

"Dowry?" the entire band said in unison. Obviously
this was the first anyone had heard of it. Romany
grinned now. Her family and her band would never
agree to part with anything to see her married to this
elflet.

Rawnie smiled again, radiating warmth and generos-
ity. "It's very little really. Generally, according to the
custom of ancient times, the christening gifts are given
so that the bride will have familiar things with her when
she marries. The dowry doesn't go to the husband, of

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227

course. It stays with the girl, so she has something to
bring into the marriage. But we'll discuss this later," she
said, as doubt remained on the faces of all of Ro-
many's people.

She stood. Her long, low cut green gown this time was
topped with a skirt of crimson flowers and green vines,
and this bound with a crimson hip shawt, the whole em-
broidered heavily with precious stones and hemmed with
golden coins that clinked tantalizingly as she moved. She
did not cover her glorious golden hair, but departed
from the gypsy fashion to wear a wreath of red wild-
flowers on the crown of her sun-gilt hair. Her golden
earrings and many matching bracelets, her begemmed
rings and a long necklace filled also with coins, clinked
and winked in the twilit evening in a hypnotizing sort
of way.

"Fenelia, spread your shawl so that Nicabar can fill it
with the first gift."

Nicabar had picked up a finely ornamented amethyst
jar that Romany hadn't noticed before and from it
poured a small mountain of golden coins like those worn
by Rawnie into the shawl.

Timoteo gasped and Choomia picked up one of the
coins and bit it.

"Now the horses, Simen, if you please," Rawnie said.
And fourteen prancing purebred horses, seven black
stallions and seven white mares, were led before Ro-
many's people and hobbled with their own horses. Timo-
teo stopped to examine the teeth of the nearest mare
and was mumbling approvingly to himself.

"And a brand new wagon for the parents, so that the
young people can have their old caravan . . ." Rawnie
concluded. Timoteo did not even tell her of the boards
ne had been painting for Romany's caravan in anticipa-
tion of her fifteenth birthday and the marriage that was
supposed to have followed.

"Plus, of course, some scarlet silk, some bottle-green
velvet, samite white as snow, and cloth of gold and sil-

enf"    i!e USUaL With a few ®ems for ^ood measure and

a v      "°f °Ur best vintaSe wine to toast the couple for

year. ^The woman who was surely going to become

Romany's mother-in-law finished and Romany was sure

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that had Rawnie not been so fine and ladylike, she
would have spit on her hand and extended it to shake
on the deal.

Romany wondered that no one insisted on checking
her teeth.

Nicabar did rub his hands together. "That's settled,
then. I will marry Romany and will roam the world with
you, as the traveling man I was born to be."

"Er—not quite, my darling," Rawnie said.

And Choomia and Timoteo also shook their heads.

"Why nor?" he demanded, and Romany thought he
was about to stamp his foot.

"Because according to our custom, the bride stays
with her husband's family," Choomia said. "Though per-
haps in this case, Lady Rawnie . . ."

"We'll talk about it. May I see what the girl has for
a dowry?" She was as businesslike now was Timoteo at
a horse trade.

Romany had had enough. "Am I a slave to be bought
and sold like this?" she asked. She was so angry she
was sputtering, but her voice came out as demanding as
Choomia's, quite unlike her usual self-effacing and
rather whiny tone. "They are my christening gifts, my
property and if I am worth so many horses and so much
gold and wealth as all this, surely I have a say?" Before
anyone could get over their surprise, she continued,
pointing accusingly to Nicabar. "He doesn't want to
marry me because he's sorry he spoiled my ceremony.
He just wants to continue to play gypsy. How many cere-
monies are you going to let him bollix up? And once he
learns our secrets, what do you think he'll do with them
but sell them off to outsiders for the attention it gets
him? Or bring them back home to his mother here."
She nodded in Rawnie's direction and for a moment,
looking at the beautiful, slender woman, who moved
herself so gracefully, whose bells tinkled so delightfully,
Romany could not believe she suspected this woman of
any trickery, of having anything but her best interests at
heart. Indeed, Rawnie's wide green eyes seemed to reg-
ister dismay at Romany's reaction.

But then Choomia spoke. Romany's tirade had given

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229

her mother time to return to her senses and for the gold
lust in her eyes to die—mostly.

"My daughter surprises you, I see, Lady Rawnie. She
surprises me as well. I did not think I had taught her so
well. She never seemed to listen to me. But I see that
she has after all learned a few things. You have given
us many beautiful and valuable gifts to take from us this
poor girl. And yet you are not a stupid woman. I cannot
help but ask myself why you would do such a thing?"

Rawnie beamed at Nicabar and pulled him close to
her. "Why, I have many reasons. Commerce for its own
sake means little to me. I have and have had more than
I can ever use for all eternity. But the happiness of my
son, who reveres your people, as I have come to do, this
is worth all the gifts I give you. I know that your people
do not normally care to have strangers among you, and
so I show you the prosperity that can be yours if you
accept my son for your daughter."

"Also, Mother, don't forget to tell Romany's parents
of my own gypsy heritage," Nicabar put in smugly.

"You mean hair-it-age," sneered Bowle, Misha's best
friend, who mourned the departure of his former play-
mate and did not wish to see him so easily replaced.
"Weren't you blond before, you elfin peacock?"

His father struck him a casual backhanded blow across
the mouth and sent him sprawling. Bowle's father didn't
handle wine very well and liked gold and horses very
much.

But Garridem, another croney of Misha's, took up the
taunt. "If you're such a gypsy, elf, where's your
earring?"

Nicabar touched his ear self-consciously. One part of
Romany was a bit thrilled to see Misha's friends, if not
Misha, wade into verbal battle on her behalf. There was
another part of her that wasn't so happy, though. This
was the part that always made her feel very much an
outsider among her own people. It was the part that felt
so outraged when a settled person was cheated by a
false fortune or had something stolen, that she invariably
snuck around behind the caravans to try to find a way
to reimburse them. Sometimes it was by giving them a
bit of truth as she saw it to balance a fantastic fortune.

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Sometimes it was to return a purse that had been stolen.
This part of her saw Nicabar's face fall and while loath-
ing the unmanly tears that glistened in his eyes, Romany
nevertheless felt that she had to do or say something
before the tears made their way down his cheeks, which
would cause more jeers from Misha's friends. "I don't
suppose you lot would know that much about being an
elf either, if you never saw one," she said to the tormen-
tors. "You ought to be flattered a gentleman like him
wants to be like us."

Nicabar wasn't very grateful to have a gir! stand up
for him, though. "Like who, big girl?" he asked, and
jerked her braid out of the back of her blouse. "A pale-
skinned, redheaded giantess whose legs turn to a fish tail
when she bathes?"

That knocked the gallantry and fairness out of Ro-
many. She went for his throat. "You don't have to tell
everything you know, you!" Suddenly a cadre of armed
elves stood between her and her intended spouse and
mother-in-law. Gently but imperiously, Rawnie parted
the guard, drawing Nicabar behind her. She didn't look
repulsed at all. In fact, she looked fascinated. "Is it true
what my son says?"

Romany dug into her blouse, pulled out the comb pen-
dant and threw it at the Lady's feet. One of the guards
picked it up and with a low bow handed it to his mis-
tress. She held it by the ribbon and studied it.

"Go ahead, take it! I give it to you! Along with the
rest of my worthless gifts." She pulled off her scarf and
her hip shawl. "Mother, go get those sandals and the
other things I was given. You want to be rid of me, go
ahead, marry me off to him. But you, you squealer," she
said to Nicabar, "will have neither me nor my people
for your amusement. I'll slit your throat on our wedding
night and run away to join them."

"Romany!" her father cried.

"But first, 1 want a couple of my own questions an-
swered," Romany said, her tongue moving faster than
her brain now. "For instance, do you, Father and
Mother, know what you're doing? Mother told me elves
were immortal, and that long ago they killed most of
our people and drove us from this land so that we took

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231

to the road. How then does Lady Rawnie, who must
have been alive then as she is now, come to play the
gypsy and have a son who claims he was gypsy born by
his mother and a man of our people she loved?"

Rawnie began to speak over her, not more loudly, but
somehow or other more compelHngly, addressing Timo-
teo. "I see now that this girl is not a proper gypsy bride,
and in fact lacks even simple manners. Therefore, you
may keep my gifts on condition that you allow Nicabar
to travel with you and I keep the girl here to teach her
how to be a proper bride to my son, since you have
failed to civilize her."

"I wouldn't marry her if there were no other girls in
the world," Nicabar said with sudden revulsion, pointing
at Romany's face. "Look at that! I thought I saw it the
other night when I saw her fish tail, but I thought surely
my eyes were playing tricks on me. Where'd that come
from, big girl? Don't tell me you're half unicorn as well
as half fish?"

Choomia came running back from the caravan, car-
rying an armload of things on what looked like a wooden
platter. These she tossed at Romany's feet. "Here,
daughter. They're yours to do with as you like. I don't
know what to do with you, I truly don't."

"I think," said Rawnie, "that it is time the five of us
had a private chat," and she raised her arms.

Romany, thinking she meant to call the guards,
snatched her dagger from her waist and the nearest thing
she could find to shield herself with, the wooden platter
Choomia had brought her gifts on. To her surprise, it
wasn't a platter at all, but really was a shield. There
were two straps in back for her arm and furthermore,
though the shield was small, the straps were large
enough for her hand and forearm to pass through easily.

She turned her head slightly toward Choomia.
"Mother, where did this . . . ?"

But Choomia was standing with her mouth open and
both hands flung into the air, as she sometimes did when
telling Romany she didn't know what to do with her.
Ijimoteo was caught in mid-shrug. And all of the other
elves and gypsies were likewise frozen in motion.

Romany turned her full attention to Rawnie, who gave

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her a smile in which her leeth gleamed less like pearls
and more like the blades of silver daggers. "Just in time,
my dear. Good work. I see you are indeed who I sus-
pected you might be. Only one of the Rowan line could
wield the rowan shield and protect herself from my
magic."

Romany glanced at the front of what she had taken
to be a platter. Red paint was chipping from it but a
branch of some sort of berry-bearing tree did seem to
be carved into the crest on the front of the shield. "I've
never seen this before," she said. "Mother must have
hidden it and then forgot to give it to me. I'm sure if
you take your witchy spell off her, she'll explain it all."

The lady just stood there, with her arms folded. Nica-
bar stepped toward Romany. "Here, let me see that."

"No!" cried his mother, and pulled him back. "Don't
touch that or you'll be undone!"

"I only wanted to see the crest, Mother," he said.
"What's wrong with that? And why would a girl get it
for a christening present, and a gypsy girl at that?"

"Yes, why would I?" Romany asked, advancing on
Rawnie, who stepped back first one, then two, paces.
"Why, you're afraid of this, aren't you?"

"Why should I be? I can unfreeze my guards at any
time and have you all taken to the dungeon."

"Mother, please, you're embarrassing me!" Nicabar
protested. "These are my friends! Soon to be my
relatives!"

"I don't think so, dear. You really must get over this
gypsy phase of yours. It's getting tiresome. I only went
along with it thinking that perhaps by casting my net
over the wanderers, I would catch this band and this
false daughter of theirs."

"Why? What has she done? Is she a very great
monster?"

"Shut up, you! And you, lady, you unfreeze my par-
ents or I'll cut you good, 1 swear I will."

"Oh, very well. But they're not to speak unless spoken
to," Rawnie said, and nodded toward each of them.

If Rawnie had been deceiving them, she had been de-
ceiving her son as well.

"Mother, don't do this. For the love of my father, let

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233

these people go. If this is to make me stay here, I will.
I won't leave you, even to wander with my people. But
these people must be free or die."

"Oh, do be quiet, Nicabar. I'm sick of your romanti-
cizing. These people are nothing but the dregs of a bar-
baric race who thought they had a right to this land
simply because they had spread their seed upon it. There
was a certain primitive charm to them, true, but they
had to go. My own father was the one who rooted them
out and exterminated all of those who hadn't the sense
to flee. Oh, I know what you're going through. I, too,
once thought them noble and adventurous. I even went
so far as to offer myself to one, once, when they were
camped by the border. I spoiled him, giving him my best
songs to play, showering him with gold, but he spurned
me, saying he had a wife. And a mistress. A pregnant
one. And there, on the log I shared with him while I
poured my heart out, that lump of a woman found us
and jeered at me, at me, saying her man wanted a fertile
woman and not some dried up old elf, unable to bear
him children to replace the one he'd been searching for.
I did not show that I was angry. I put them under a
sleeping spell and in each of their ears, whispered that
I was nothing more than a recurrent dream, now gone.
Only at the last, when no one knew, did I express my
true feelings. I raked my fingers down his cheek and
took with me a little piece of him, and upon them all I
laid a doom. Then I went home. What else could I do?

"My old nurse told me that the woman was right, that
when your people left, they had laid a curse on mine
that though we might live forever, we could never more
bear children. I'd not thought that much about it before,
to tell you the truth. I hadn't wanted children, yet I saw
women who had them. I asked my nurse of this and she
laughed at my innocence. "Those are changelings, my
Lady," she said to me. "Only changelings."

"I asked what she meant and she told me they were
the children of mortals. One of us might enchant a log,
say, or a tiresome goat, even a frog, and cause it by
glamourie to resemble a certain child. Then we would
exchange that child for the mortal child, and thus have
a real child to hold until it grew to be stupid and ordi-

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235

nary like its parents, at which time it could be trained
to become a servant."

"You took me from my real parents, then?" Nicabar
said. He was not so pleased with his mother now. "Or
will you claim that I am actually a log?"

"Oh, no, dear, you were a fox kit. But I was not con-
tent with the simple spell. I intended to make Jacopo be
haunted with dreams of me again, the part of me he saw
in you. I took the bits of his skin from under my nails,
and a lock of my own hair, and by my magic fused these
with the fox kit, until the whole became you. In my pool
I saw that their babe was born, and I disguised myself
as a gypsy using the very dye you have today, and took
myself by magic to their camp. Where their squalling,
puling infant lay asleep, I took it from its blanket and
left you instead, my son. So you see, although you are
a changeling, you really are flesh of his flesh and mine
and more than worthy for any bride or any adventure
you wish."

"And you're proud of that?" Romany asked. "It's as
if you took his father by force."

"Yes. Isn't it?" she said, the silver dagger teeth show-
ing again. "But it served him right."

"No wonder you froze our people as well as theirs!"
Nicabar said, drawing himself up with righteous indigna-
tion. "You don't want them to hear that their Lady, their
Phuri Dai, dishonors honorable men, steals children, and
breaks her own hospitality with her invited guests!"

"And raises impudent children," she added with a lift
of the brow. "Don't be silly, dear. I froze them because
it pleased me to do so. I'm not ashamed of what I've
done. Everyone does it. If they want to."

Romany advanced on her another step so that the
Lady had to bend backward against one of the frozen
guards. One more half step and Romany was touching
her with the shield.

And a very strange thing happened. The moment she
was touched by the rowan shield, the Lady's beauty van-
ished. She was still tall, but her slenderness was bony
scrawniness. Her teeth were long and yellow and her
green eyes clouded by a wilderness of fury, grief, cun-
ning, and pain. And something else that might have been

remorse, but it seemed so out of character that Romany
discarded the notion at once.

"Release us all or I will stay here until you rot that
way," Romany threatened.

"I will not. Not until you marry my son and declare
your intention to live here with me. Otherwise your peo-
ple can die of hunger where they stand."

Choomia's mouth was working, and she was running
around waving her arms but still could not speak. Timo-
teo pointed to his own mouth.

"You may speak," Nicabar said.

"Keep your gifts, woman," Choomia told her. "This
marriage must not take place."

"Look, the horses are nothing but rats and the gold
has turned to dead leaves," Timoteo said.

"Typical elfery," Choomia said disgustedly. "Leaves
for gold, rats for horses, and the proposed bridegroom
not only started life as a fox, but is the girl's half brother
as well."

"Don't be ridiculous!" snapped the Lady» still looking
very unladylike while in contact with Romany's shield.
"Do you know who this girl ts?"

"Yes, we do," Timoteo said. "Did you know who your
friend Jacopo was?"

"A good-looking man with poor taste," Rawnie spat.

"Romany, let her up, but stand near her," Timoteo
said. "If she gets up to her tricks again, touch her again."

"My father was King of the Gypsies," Nicabar an-
swered. "Mother always said so."

"He was also the King of Ablemarle, until he and his
wife had a falling out over the disappearance of their
daughter. He abdicated his title, left his wife the Queen,
rejoined his people and remarried. In the meantime,
Choomia and I, with the help of another relative of hers,
reclaimed the child. Jacopo died mysteriously before we
could reunite them however."

"What did you do to him?" Nicabar asked, his voice
quiet. "What did you do to my father?"

"Don't you remember? He died in that fire, trying to
save you and your mother when she carelessly tipped
over a candle inside her wagon. You were never in any
danger of course. I had you out well before he even

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

entered the caravan. But neither of them survived. It
was just as well. It was time for you to rejoin me."

"But I was just a changeling!" Nicabar said. "You told
us so yourself!"

Rawnie reached out to touch his cheek but he recoiled
from her. "Ah, but for one to be a true changeling, I
should have had something in exchange, and their child
was dead. Most of the creatures we place with them
instead of children are noxious things, tiresome things,
but your father, instead of being tormented by you,
cared for you. Even she did. And she couldn't have you.
Not you and him both. So I brought you home to me.
After all, you may not be the child of my loins, but you
are still part of me and part of him. I only want what's
best for you."

"And you thought that the Crown Princess of Able-
marie would do nicely, eh?" Timoteo thought.

"What?" Romany asked, almost dropping her shield.
"Do you mean me!"

"Of course they do, you silly girl," Rawnie said, "how
many other gypsy girls do you know who are as large as
you are, with red hair and pale skin, and with such elab-
orate christening gifts? I couldn't tell at first when I saw
you in all that dye, but your size was impressive. On
your mother's side, you are of Frost Giant lineage, as
well as some elfin blood, which is what gives you a cer-
tain beauty despite your gauche bearing and behavior.
All you seemed to have inherited from your father was
your black eyes and a taste for gaudy clothing and travel.
When Nicabar reported to me what you looked like in
your bath, I thought it must be you, but when he told
me about the comb, I knew it had to be. The mermaids
bragged from shore to shore of their magical christening
gift to the missing princess."

"First I heard of it," Romany said, stooping to pick
up the comb, which lay at Rawnie's—she could no
longer think of her as any sort of a lady—feet.

"The positive proof is in the rowan shield. Ablemarle
is an ally of Aire. In fact, I believe your maternal grand-
mother and I are distant cousins—her branch of the fam-
ily left Aire before we rid the land of these creatures,"
she waved her hand dismissively at Romany's people.

THE GYPSIES' CURSE

237

"Ask them why they did not return you to your mother,
knowing that your father was dead. Ask them why they
didn't give you your shield at your birthday celebration,
and why they were trying to marry you off without tell-
ing you who you were. Go on. Ask them." And she
regarded Choomia and Timoteo with a haughty, trium-
phant glance.

Romany turned slowly to her parents, whose mouths
were moving uselessly as if they had once more been
forbidden to speak. As indeed they had been, unless
given permission. "Mother, Father? You knew this? I
thought you took me in out of kindness, because I was
a monster. I thought I was ugly and that was why I had
to hide myself behind dye."

"No, no, my beauty, you were never ugly. Never did
we mean for you to think so. It was only that you had
to be disguised as much as we could—" Timoteo said.

"To keep you safe," Choomia added. "As your father
wished. Your mother had her throne and her country,
but he had only you, and he feared if you lived in the
palace you would be stolen again."

"But no one steals a child from us," Timoteo said. "It
is a point of pride. We hid you, disguised you and kept
you safe."

"I can understand that you would do that until I was
old enough to look out for myself, but why try to marry
me off?"

"We wanted you to choose for yourself at first and
Misha, he was a nice boy."

"Hah!" Rawnie said. "They wanted you to marry one
of their own to reinforce the Gypsy blood controlling
the throne of Ablemarle, so that a child three quarters
gypsy would succeed you to the throne."

"No, we didn't. We wanted only her happiness, her
safety," Choomia protested.

"But you tried to marry me to that one," Romany
said with a jerk of her head toward Nicabar.

"Well, we didn't know what his family was like at first
and your father said to me, 'Ah, well, she has to marry
someone.' And he showed proper respect to your peo-
ple," Choomia said, but she could not look Romany in
the eye when she said it. She, who could tell the most

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outrageous fortunes to gullible clients without blinking,
could not meet the eye of her daughter. And Timoteo
seemed to be staring off into space, as if he might start
whistling at any moment.

"It was the money she offered, wasn't it?" Romany
asked. "You knew who I was, knew my mother was
longing for me, had my future entrusted to you by my
father, and you were going to sell me to her for him"

"Someday you'll understand, daughter . . . Romany.
It is our way that a girl be settled with a man of wealth,
if possible. It is a good thing. When you're older, you'll
understand and we'll laugh about this."

"Before I'm older by a single day, you'll never see me
again," Romany declared. "What of this stone in my
head? What is that?"

"It happened at your christening," Timoteo said. "A
great crystal idol broke and a shard of it lodged in your
forehead. We don't know what it means really. We made
sure you kept it covered because some of your enemies
knew you were marked by it. Please, my chavi, don't be
angry with us. You are the only daughter we ever knew.
We wanted only for—"

"I know what you wanted," she said, still angry as her
entire world, a world of lies, tumbled around her and
left all of her ideas about herself, her parents, her home
and her way of life in senseless shards. "You," she said
to Rawnie, threatening her with the shield, "will travel
with us to your border, and guarantee us safe passage.
And then I will take Slipshod, Path—Timoteo, and ride
away from you. At least I trained him myself and know
he will not turn into a rat."

She left them at the border, turning north, toward the
Sea of Glass, beyond which, she learned, was Ablemarle.
They had promised to turn south.

With her was her rowan shield, proof against magic
even as strong as the Lady's, her comb, the scarves and
shawls and dangles of her gypsy attire and her old san-
dals, which Timoteo had hastily remade to fit her, saying
they had magical properties, as all her gifts did. There
were so many of them, and the christening so long ago,

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239

that both he and Choomia claimed they could not re-
member them all.

She camped that night in a pouring rain, building a
small fire with green wood under a sheltering rock ledge.
Whatever her gifts did, none of them seemed to keep
her warm, or dry, or fed. Her clothing was soaked and
she had no warm caravan to climb into, no hot food
cooked with the other women and girls to fill her belly.
No one chided her or teased her, no one scolded her or
comforted her. But no one lied to her either, she
thought.

She was thinking she might as well go to bed hungry
when the hairs on her arms prickled with more than the
cold and she felt herself being watched once more.
"Come out," she said.

A fox trotted out and dropped a pheasant at her feet.

"Nicabar, I presume," she said, but began plucking
the pheasant.

The fox said, in Nicabar's voice, "I told Mother I
could not bear her company any longer after learning
what she had done, and your people—the gypsies I
mean—would rather have the plague than me for com-
pany now. You, it seems, are my only other family, Sis-
ter. I chose to come with you. Mother—the Lady—
relented before I left and told me I would have the
power to shapeshift between this form and man form as
I wished. I thought appearing as a fox was less likely to
get me killed—"

"You were right."

"And besides, as a man, I'm not a good enough hunter
to capture such a fine bird. And as a fox, I have no need
of a horse to travel. So what will it be?"

She looked down at the sharp face and dark eyes of
the fox, whose hair was something like her own, who
had tried so hard to learn her customs, and who, like
her, had been kept in ignorance of his true origins. Be-
sides, she wasn't all that used to hunting. "I usually like
a leg, myself," she said, turning the spit which now con-
tained the plucked pheasant. "What will it be for you?"

They ate silently until the food was gone and exhaus-
tion overtook them. The fox's breathing lulled Romany
to sleep and his fur kept her hands warm that night.

ELF HELP

by John DeChande

John DeChancie has written more than seventeen novels
in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror fiefds, including
the acclaimed Castle series, the most recent of which, Bride
of the Castle, was published in 1994. He has also written
dozens of short stories and nonfiction articles as well, ap-
pearing in such magazines as The Magazine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The Kenyon Review and many anthol-
ogies. In addition to his writing, John enjoys composing and
playing classical music and traveling.

Once upon a time there was a very old and very tradition-
minded manufacturing concern named the Mittelb-
erg Shoe Company, located, appropriately enough, in the
town of Mittelberg, Pennsylvania, not far from Philadel-
phia. Gottlieb Mittelberg, born in the German principal-
ity of Hesse-Nassau and emigrating to America in his
boyhood, founded the company in 1790. In the long span
of years between that date and the late 1950s, the Mit-
telberg Shoe Company manufactured work shoes and
boots for farmers, farmhands, factory workers, day la-
borers, and machine operators. Its share of the market
was always small, but it did a steady business and manu-
factured a fine product.

Until foreign competition almost drove it out of busi-
ness. Gerald K. Mittelberg, great-great-great grandson
of Gottlieb and president of the firm until his death in
1961, was a political animal who loved to wheel and
wheedle in Washington. He turned the company to man-
ufacturing specialized footwear for highly specialized
jobs—shoes for aircraft workers who walked on the deli-
cate, burnished wings of supersonic aircraft, shoes for
brave engineers who traipsed around the containment

240

ELF HELP

241

buildings of nuclear reactors (with soles that would not
pick up any "fleas"—microscopic flecks of reactor core
material), shoes for the tiptoeing workers who tinkered
nuclear warheads together, shoes for all sorts of esoteric
medical and scientific uses, and, most lucratively, exqui-
sitely crafted nonskid, nonshedding, dust-shunning, germ-
intolerant shoes (at $10,500/pair) for technicians to tread
the meticulously clean rooms where space satellites,
probes, and other lapidary technological wonders are
assembled.

The Mittelberg shoe company did well during the '60s,
'70s, and '80s, raking in hundreds of millions in defense
and other contracts. But then came the 1990s, the end
of the Cold War, defense cutbacks, a Democratic admin-
istration, and other calamities.

"No illegal immigrant workers! That's out!"

"Take it easy, Jerry," John Szell, VP in charge of pro-
duction, tofd his agitated boss. "Nobody said anything
about illegal immigrants."

"I take two weeks hiking in New Mexico. When I get
back, I got a sweatshop," said Gerald K. Mittelberg II
(son of Anton "Andy" K. Mittelberg, who had recently
and tragically succumbed to Alzheimer's Disease at the
age of sixty-one). "The Mittelberg Shoe Company has
never stooped to running a piecemeal operation." He
ran a hand over his bald pate, ironically enough, to wipe
sweat. "Damn hot in here. Lower those blinds, would
you, Krista?"

Jerry Mittelberg's huge desk angled out from a wall
into which was cut a window with a panoramic view of
the warehouse's loading dock, where a titanic eighteen-
wheeler was inching backward up the steep slope of the
parking lot. The factory had been built on a hill that the
dray horses of yore found not uncongenial, but up which
the big rigs of today grunted and complained. The
eighteen-wheeler let out a blast from its diesel.

"We're running the air-conditioning on low to save
electricity," said Krista Lutz, the company comptroller.
Still attractive and looking surprisingly young for her
age, she had started as a secretary years ago. It had
been a big company event to have a woman move into
Upper Management.

242

John DeChancie

"We're always saving money," Mittelberg complained.
"And losing money."

"Well, look, Jerry," John Szell went on, "we're always
saying that with NASA and defense cutbacks, and the
nuke plant freeze, we can't make enough from the high-
tech footwear business, so we gotta have a new product
line. Ordinary shoes for ordinary consumers. And if
we're gonna offer product at a competitive price, we
either have to contract out the manufacturing to foreign
contractors—"

"Never!" Mittelberg said. "This is an American com-
pany, always has been, always will be. No farming out to
Pacific Rim sweatshops. I won't have our shoes stitched
together by ten-year-olds. We got ethics. This town was
founded as a religious community, long ago. We have a
tradition of charity and goodwill to uphold. Old Gottlieb
would spin in his grave if we didn't."

"Right," Szell agreed. "We got an ethical problem.
But we also have an economic problem. When you sell
shoes at ten grand a pair, you can afford to hire Ameri-
can workers at competitive wages. When you're selling
your shoes for forty-nine ninety-five a pair, you can't do
that. But like you said, we got an ethical problem. So
we let someone else worry about the ethics. So contract
it all out to a U.S. firm. They hire workers who are
willing to settle for something less than a competitive
wage."

"I won't use illegal immigrants!"

"They won't be illegal. They're immigrants, but they
all got visas and work permits. That's guaranteed."

Mittelberg sat back in his chair. "Yeah?"

"Sure. We don't have to do anything, we don't have
to hire or fire, we don't have to do payroll, we don't
have to pay workman's comp, health insurance, or any
other benefits. All we do is open the doors of the shop
at night and let 'em work."

"At night?"

"That's the way they like to work. All night, every
night. All we do is let 'em in."

"That's a little strange," Jerry Mittelberg said.

"Sure, it's a little strange. But that's the way they like
to work."

ELF HELP

243

"I just don't know about contracting with an outside
firm for something as crucial as sourcing labor," Mittel-
berg said uneasily.

"We've been doing it for years. Don't we use temp
agencies for most of our office help?"

Jerry Mittelberg reached under his suit coat and
scratched his trim waist. He liked to keep in shape. He
ran or jogged every day, and spent vacations backpack-
ing. "Well, put it that way. . . ."

"Hey, that's right," Krista Lutz said. "Never thought
of that."

"Who runs this outfit?" Mittelberg asked.

"Guy by the name of Kobold."

"German?"

"Yeah, I think it's a German name."

"Well, appropriate," Mittelberg said with satisfac-
tion, nodding.

"Sure. And here's the part you'll really like, Jerry. All
the workers are German, too. Displaced East German
workers."

Jerry beamed. "No kidding? Hey, that's great. That
almost makes it ... well, almost charity, fer crissake.
Those people are hard up over there. We'd be giving
them opportunity."

"Old Gottlieb would be pleased," John Szell said.

"He sure would! When can I meet this Kobold guy?"

"Got him waiting outside your office," Szell told his
boss.

"Why didn't you say something? Go get him, by all
means."

Kobold was a strange-looking sort, a short, thin man
with a caricature face that put one in mind of a ventrilo-
quist's dummy. The mouth was a bit too wide, the ears
were—well, it was hard to tell about the ears, because
they were partly covered by a sort of strange hat—a
three-cornered affair of green felt that more or less
bunched up to one side of the head. The rest of his
attire was of various shades of green.

A strange-looking little man indeed.

"Gut ahfternoon, chentlemen."

Just these three words came riding on a Black-Forest-
thick German accent that modulated a surprisingly

244

John DeChancie

strong, deep-throated voice. You'd expect squeaks from
this fellow.

"Hi," Jerry Mittelberg said simply, a bit nonplussed.
He recovered instantly and said, "Glad to meet you. Do
sit down, Mr. ... Kobalt?"

"Kobold."

"Kobold. Interesting name. And you're from what
part of Germany?"

"The wild parts," Kobold said, smiling. (He said, "Dee
vye-elt pardtz," but we will dispense with distracting
spelling.)

"I didn't know . . . well, I guess I did know . . ."

"Parts of Germany are pretty rugged," Krista com-
mented.

"There still are wolves in the Schvartzwald and the
Odenwald," Kobold said. "Few, and seldom seen. But
they are there."

"Didn't know that," Jerry said.

"But the forest is disappearing," Kobold went on, sud-
denly wistful. "The oak and the beech, the larch, the
birch. The pine."

"Oh, yes, I know. We give to environmental causes
all the time. Don't we, Krista?"

"Absolutely."

Just then the big rig outside roared again. The effect
on Kobold was remarkable. He jumped to his small
feet—(my those were curious shoes—did those toes
come . . . up a little?)—and craned his neck to look out
the window. "Bah," he said with some annoyance. A bit
shaken he sat down again. Noticing the curious looks he
was getting, he smiled. "Noise bothers me. I am sorry.
I do not like the big trucks. They come through the
forest on the autobahns at night. They sound like drag-
ons fighting. You can't sleep."

"Uh . . . yeah," Jerry said. "Sorry. Uh . . . your work-
ers. What did they—?"

"We are shoemakers. We worked in the shoe factor-
ies. They have closed."

"Great," Jerry Mittelberg said. "I mean—sorry—
that's fine that you have an experienced crew. Have they
had much experience with machines?"

"We work with our hands," Kobold said.

ELF HELP

24S

"That's good, but our situation is going to change.
We've put out a handmade high-tech product for years,
but with consumer product we're going to have to mech-
anize the operation somewhat. In our high-tech opera-
tion, there're quality-control considerations. With the
new line, though—"

"We can work faster than machines," Kobold stated
flatly.

Jerry Mittelberg looked incredulous. "Yeah?"

"John Szell laughed. "Jerry, I should have set you up
for this, but I couldn't resist springing it on you. We
won't have to automate at all. These guys are used to
storming."

"Ja," Kobold said.

"Storming?" Jerry and Krista chorused.

"Command economy practice," Szell went on. "You
can't get materials for the first three weeks of the pro-
duction month, so everybody sits around. Then the stuff
finally comes in, and you have to storm to make quotas.
Rush, rush, get out the product, all in a weekend,
sometimes."

"Ja, this is how it goes, some of the time," Kobold
said, nodding.

Jerry said, "But what about quality?"

"They won't be storming with us," Szell said. "But
they can work like demons. They can put out product,
good product, in record time."

"How do you know?"

"We had a trial run while you were in New Mexico."

Jerry's eyes slitted up. "It's a plot. My managers are
plotting against me."

Everyone laughed. Jerry was a big kidder, and every-
one knew he was kidding now. Actually, he hated being
a business executive. He liked the money and the perks,
but his real passion was hiking and backpacking and
doing generally environmentally friendly things. He
loved animals, especially the wild variety. He had once
donated ten thousand dollars to a fund for nurturing the
orphaned cubs of a puma that had been hunted down
»y authorities when it had killed a hiker. (He had not
contributed to the orphans of the hiker.) He liked to
tnmk of himself as an enlightened, modern businessman.

246

John DeChancie

He hated being thought of as a capitalist exploiter, and
did everything he could to ameliorate this image.

He didn't like running a shoe company. He lived to
explore old native American trails in the East and de-
serted canyons in the West, always on foot.

Szell deadpanned sincerity as he said, "Jerry, I didn't
want to propose something so radical without absolute
confidence in the plan. So I had Herr Kobold and his
crew come here last week and do a dry run. What they
produced was good product."

"What product? What product?" This time Jerry's
concern wasn't faked. He felt a pang of guilt for having
absented himself from the corporate quarterdeck so fre-
quently over the years. Serves me right, he thought
grimly.

"This product. The latest thing in athletic footwear.
Radically new." John Szell took a cardboard box out
from under his chair. From it he took a strange-looking
athletic shoe and set it on Jerry's desktop. Its color was
a bright forest green.

"Wow," Jerry said. "That does look radical."

Szell put the shoe's mate next to it. "It's the way it
wears that you'll like. Try 'em on. They're your size."

"Really. Well . . . maybe—"

"Go ahead, Jerry. Believe me, you've never worn
shoes like these. They're going to remake our company."

"Where'd they come from? Who developed them?"

"Herr Kobold, here," Szell said. "They were making
them on a small scale in East Germany up to the very
end. The trouble with their system wasn't that they
couldn't put out quality. It was mainly productivity sna-
fus and cost effectiveness problems that crippled 'em
over there."

Jerry Mittelberg put the shoes on and laced them up.
They really didn't look like much, but they felt good.
They felt extremely good. He stood and walked a few
paces toward the inner wall, then turned and came back.
The fit was uncanny. He had the feeling that his feet
were encased in the softest of cushions, cool, dry, and
comfortable. More than that, he got an overwhelming
sense of pedal well-being. These were shoes. They were
shoes for walking, for walking long distances. For hiking.

ELF HELP

247

He felt as though he could hike seven miles in these
things, right now. Just walk out the door and light out
for the horizon. Nothing could stop him. Remarkable.

"These are great," he said simply, still looking down
at them. "But ... the color?"

"Of course, we can vary the color all we want," Szell
said. "That right, Herr Kobold?"

"These are green shoes," Kobold said without
expression.

"Uh . . . yeah. But there'd be no problem, right?"

"The green is of the forest," Kobold said.

"The green could be a selling point," Krista said.
"Green is a very in color. The environmental movement,
Greenpeace, that sort of thing."

"Sure," John Szell enthused. "That's it. Krista, you
may have sounded the keynote of our whole sales cam-
paign. O'course, we'll have to take it up with the ad
agency."

"We'll need a new agency," Jerry said. "A really up-
scale New York one. Product like this rates a blitz of an
ad campaign."

"Actually, they're damned ugly shoes," Szell mused,
almost in spite of himself. "Look at those funny toes."

"I think the toes are cute," Krista said.

"Still, kinda ugly, if you get right down to it. But
strangely ... I dunno . . ."

"Cute," Krista said. "I don't like the color either, but
somehow—" She shrugged. "It works."

"I knew you would like them," Kobold said with a
satisfied grin and an impish eye-twinkle. "Most people
do. They are not fashion shoes. They are walking shoes.
People should walk more. Too many machines. There
are too many machines in the world."

"He's right," John Szell said. "There's the health
angle. And those funny toes have to be good for some-
thing orthopedic. Remember Earth shoes? Those were
orthopedic, I think."

"They hurt," Krista said, remembering. "Always made
my arches ache."

"^Anyway, 'orthopedic' always sounds good."

"I can't get over these shoes," Jerry Mittelberg said,
still unable to lift his gaze from the floor.

248

John DeCkancie

John Szell guffawed. "Herr Kobold, I think you have
a customer here."

Kobold's smile was erased by another loud snort of
diesel exhaust, followed by a sharp hiss of air brakes.

"Ach!" Kobold got up, went to the window, and
scowled through the antique mullioned pane. "Zere iss
too mudge noisse!"

"Greenfeet" shoes were a world success. In fact, they
were a world phenomenon. They caught on first in the
United States, and the massive ad campaign—TV, radio,
print, and World Wide Web—was merely icing on the
cake, for the shoes seemed to have a sales life of their
own. People bought Greenfeet and wore them. Children
wore them to school and to play, grown-ups wore them
to run and jog, and then began wearing them to work.
Movie stars appeared on talk shows wearing designer
outfits bottomed out by Greenfeet. The shoes became
fashionable at all levels of society. Greenfeet went with
anything people would wear. Fashion designers endorsed
them. Basketball players endorsed them. Steelworkers
swore by them. In cities all across the land, millions of
green-shod feet padded up and down the sidewalks.
Business executives wore them, secretaries adored them.
Politicians and lawyers wore them. In courthouses
around the land, dark-suited lawyers and judges shuffled
around wearing green athletic shoes. Out the front doors
of the nation's churches burst breathless wedding par-
ties—the men in tuxes or morning coats, the women in
gowns—all wearing Greenfeet, including the bride.

What people mostly did wearing Greenfeet was walk,
jog, and run. The running and jogging and walking fad
of past decades took on new life. Marathon foot races
took on the importance of major league sports events.

Parks, trails, and forests became choked with people
tramping through and over them.

Greenfeet shoes sold all over the world. You would
think that a tiny manufacturing plant in Pennsylvania
would have trouble keeping up with such universal de-
mand. You would be wrong. Mittelberg Shoe Company
had no trouble at all, until the day that Herr Kobold
came marching into Jerry's office. Jerry had just been

ELF HELP

249

commenting to John Szell that no one had ever seen
Kolbold's crew actually at work. Each night, the lights
would come on inside the deserted factory just after
dark, and would go out again just before dawn. At day-
break, the day crew would arrive to find piles of boxes
filled with Greenfeet shoes.

"It's spooky," Jerry said.

"But bottom-line effective," Szell commented.

"You never told me how you ran into this guy,"
Jerry said.

"Popped out of the woods behind my house. Just
came up to me and starting talking about the company,
how he could solve our problems."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Out of the woods," Jerry said, nodding. "Makes
sense."

Just then Jerry's office door flew open and in came
Kobold. He stalked to Jerry's desk and stopped, standing
arms akimbo, defiantly.

"No more! We will not make any more shoes!"

"Why?" Jerry Mittefberg asked.

"The woods are full of you people! You come tramp-
ing through every night! Tramp, tramp, tramp. Big feet,
all night, smashing down the undergrowth! You make
campfires, and you snore. All night!"

Jerry grinned. "You should have seen that coming.
People like to walk, take hikes. They like to walk in
woods. You like woods. You people."

Kobold scowled. "You know who we are?"

Jerry shrugged. "It didn't take long for us to catch on.
You're elves. Little people. People of the forests. You
made those shoes because you didn't like our industrial
civilization. You hate trucks, automobiles. You hated the
highways we built through your forests. You hated
everything about science and technology. They were
eroding the environment. And now you got what you
want. People go to work on foot, no matter how far
they live from where they work. Masses of people every
morning, all jogging, running, or walking. The highways
are practically deserted but for delivery trucks, the things
you hate most."

250

John DeChancie

ELF HELP

251

"This is true," Kobold said. "We did not think—"

"Of course you didn't think. Logical thinking is what
science and technology are all about. You little guys
think intuitively. But that's not always reliable. You
didn't think things through. You thought that by getting
people out of their automobiles, you'd turn back the
clock to a pre-industrial age. And you've practically
done it. All across the world, automobile companies are
going out of business, and the factories that supply
things the industry needs are closing. There's a world-
wide depression, but nobody seems to care. That's be-
cause you magicked these shoes."

"Yes, we did," Kobold said. "You know this, too."

"Sure. Like I said, didn't take us long to catch on to
what you little guys were up to. It was a plot. And we
went along with it. You know why? Because I'm on your
side. I've always been a big environmentalist. I like the
outdoors, I love forests. I wanna save 'em, too. And if
it takes a little magic, what the heck."

Kobold stamped his foot. "No more! We will not
make any more shoes for you."

"I think you'd better."

"Why?"

"Because if this walking and running spell ever wears
off, you're going to see industrial civilization come back
with a vengeance. People are going to be tired, very,
very tired. I mean, they're being forced by magic to go
on foot. After the spell wears off, they'll be good and
tired, and good and mad. They'll think up new ways to
avoid walking. Souped-up new cars of every sort, roaring
down those autobahns faster than ever. Drag races will \
take the place of marathons. No one will walk ever
again. Science and technology have been dormant for a
couple of decades. That was just a pause to rest. After
Greenfeet, they'll come into full bloom again. Why, in
a thousand years, the surface of the planet could be en-
tirely paved over."

Kobold grabbed his slender throat. "Ach!"

"So, you'd better keep everyone on foot," Jerry Mit-
telberg said. "Keep those magic spells coming." •

Kobold turned and stalked out of the office.

After Jerry's divorce, he married Krista, with whom
he'd been trysting for years. They both went into semire-
tirement and devoted themselves to backpacking all the
ancient Native American trails of North America.

They were just coming down the last leg of the Ore-
gon Trail, about a hundred miles south of Portland, hik-
ing down the western slope of the Cascades. The Pacific
was in sight, and the scent of pine and fir was perfume-
heavy. Their Greenfeet shoes, never tiring, carried them
along as a stiff breeze would two sailboats.

"Did you know they were elves, right off the bat?"
Jerry asked.

"Sure. Kobold is a German word for elf. Did you?"

"Sure. My grandfather used to tell me stories about
them. About how you couldn't trust them, how they
were always playing tricks on humans. But we got the
best of them. The environment is saved. Nature has re-
turned. And the human race is saved in the process."

"But the eives are mighty ticked off about it."

"They got no choice. And the best thing about it is
that I didn't do it out of greed. I could have liquidated
the company and retired comfortably."

"Not as comfortably as you did," Krista said.

"No, I admit it. Being one of the richest men in the
world isn't at all bad. I'm worth more than Bill Gates
and Donald Trump put together now. But that doesn't
matter. I did it for the environment, for the Earth. Out
of public-spirited selflessness. I'm proud of that."

"I'm proud of you, too," Krista said, trying to peck
his cheek on the fly. She didn't make it. "Slow up!"

"Can't," Jerry said. "This new model is even better
than the old one. You don't want to slow down for
anything."

"Yeah, but I'm tired, sort of," Krista said.

"I'm not. Got to get to the shore."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Just gotta get there, to the very end
of the trail."

They came down from the slopes and proceeded inex-
orably toward the water. The sun was bright, the sky
cloudless. It was a spectacularly beautiful day on the
Oregon coast. Ahead lay a rocky shore, bright with

252

John DeCkancie

churning surf, its cool northern Pacific waters inviting.
The smell of the sea mingled with the pine and the fir,
and the effect was exhilarating. Jerry couldn't wait to
get to the water.

He noticed lots of other hikers coming out of the
woods. Hundreds ... he looked again. Thousands. Thou-
sands of people had been out walking this day, and they;
were all walking toward the sea.

"What do you make of this?" Krista asked, a littl
breathless. She wasn't in as good shape as Jerry.

"People gotta walk," Jerry said over his shoulder.
"Come on, keep up."

"I'm trying."

They passed a line of shops that edged a two-lane
coast highway and crossed the pavement, not bothering
to look in either direction, for there hadn't been any
traffic on it for more than a year. They hit sand and
continued strolling along.

"Ah, smell that ocean!" Jerry drew in deep draughts
of sea air. He felt absolutely wonderful. A tremendous
sense of well-being, of completeness, of naturalness suf-
fused his soul.

"This is the world we lost," Jerry said. "We have thi
natural world back. We'll never lose it again. And w
have the elves to thank for it."

His Greenfeet hit the water, and he continued walk
ing. Soon he was into the surf to his crotch. But he ke
his stride. Behind him, Krista splashed to catch up. U.
the shore a little way, other people were wading into thi
surf as well.

"Jerry, wait! This is the end, there's no more tra
This is it. Why can't we stop walking?"

"Can't," he said, feeling just a little strange as hi
splashed on into the sea. Then the stunning realizatio;
hit him full force.

He knew he wasn't going to stop.

WITH HIS OWN WINGS
by Brace Holland Rogers

Bruce Holland Rogers is no stranger to anthologies, having
appeared in Feline and Famous, Danger in D.C., and Cat
Crimes Takes a Vacation. When he not plotting feline felon-
ies, he's writing excellent fantasy stories for such collections
as Enchanted Forests and Monster Brigade 3000. He lives
in Eugene, Oregon.

Once upon a time, in a valley where the trees towered
like cities, there lived a man called Richard, a
woman called Marnie, and their son, whom they had
named Daniel. They lived in a little house with a roof
that sagged and paint that peeled, near a logging road
where the timber trucks rumbled by too fast, churning
plumes of dust in the summer and scattering sprays of
mud in winter. Wild blackberry vines overran the porch,
and starlings nested noisily and messily in the gaps be-
neath the eaves. Anyone who turned from the road and
drove along the tire ruts to the house might have
thought the family poor.

But they were not poor. Richard was a code wizard
who spent his mornings in the glow of his computer
monitor, animating three-dimensional device-independent
objects that he built up from two-dimensional images.
FedEx trucks delivered his assignments and checks. Be-
hind the house were clusters of satellite dishes that Rich-
ard used to upload and download the spells of his craft.

There was more to their wealth than big checks and
satellite dishes. Richard's riches were in that certain
smile of Mamie's, in the work that absorbed him, and
in the hours he spent teaching Daniel to read. Mamie's
riches were in Richard's low laugh, in Daniel's eagerness
for fairy tales, in her peach and apple and cherry trees,

253

254

Brace Holland Rogers

her roses and rhododendrons, in the wild blackberry
vines that long ago made the garden fences into a sweet
and thorny wall. Daniel had his mother's stories, his fa-
ther's books, and a bicycle for riding across the mead-
ows. And birds.

Thanks to Daniel, they were all three rich in birds.
Even before he could read, Daniel had studied the pic-
tures in the old field guide in Richard's office. Richard
had read him the names of birds Daniel had seen in the
meadows and pine woods, and Daniel had let the birds
themselves teach him their songs. Before he was five, he
had taught his mother that even though robins and tana-
gers sang the same notes, they didn't do it in the same
way. Robins sang as if they had something important to
tell you: "Pit-ik pit-erik pil-ik! Pit~ik pit-erik pit-ik!" But
tanagers weren't sure what they wanted to say: "Pit-erik?
Pit-erik? Pit-ik?"

Before Daniel had come into the world, Richard and
Marnie had noticed crows, magpies, and sparrows in the
garden, and not much else. It was Daniel's attention that
gave names and colors to the lazuli bunting, the yellow
warbler, the rufous-sided towhee. It was Daniel who
taught them to see how unalike the sparrows were from
the mountain chickadee, or even how different the song
sparrows were from the fox sparrows. He taught them to
look for tricolored blackbirds croaking from the cattails
where the redwings sang. And it was Daniel who showed
his parents that if you walked across a meadow early in
the day, the orange and blue barn swallows would spin
tight circles around you, dining on the insects you had
startled from the dewy grass.

At the far end of the meadow, Daniel would spread
his arms like wings and whirl.

He could whistle the easy song of the chickadee or
the lark's rapid fugue. But what astonished his parents
was the harder songs, the sounds that no boy should be
able to make. As Richard and Marnie, holding his hands,
walked Daniel toward the river one evening, the boy
opened his mouth and out came a bright rasping that
sounded just exactly like a scrub jay.

Marnie laughed. Richard said, "Wow!" And together

WITH HIS OWN WINGS

255

they lifted Daniel from his feet so he could fly between
his parents for a pace or two.

Of the stories Marnie toid him, Daniel's favorite was
about the origin of elves. It was a story that went like
this:

In the beginning of the world, God dropped in on
Adam and Eve. They greeted him with respect and
showed him all around their house. Eve showed her chil-
dren to God, and He praised them. "But have you no
other children?" asked the Almighty. And Eve tied. She
said that these were alt the children she had, when the
truth was that she hadn 't finished washing some of her
sons and daughters and was ashamed to let God see them
as they were. But God knew the truth, and he said to
Eve, "What you have hidden from me shall be hidden
from your own eyes." So it was that some of Eve's chil-
dren became invisible to her and are still invisible to us
now, unless they wish to be seen. But those other children
of Adam and Eve live alongside us in the meadows and
the hills, among the stones and wild rivers. What seem
boulders to us are their houses. What seem tangled forests
to us are their farms.

"The trees are their houses," Daniel told Marnie once,
"not boulders." He looked around the garden, then
pointed at the great grandfather cherry tree. Ancient
lower branches spanned the ground like bridges before
they grew upwards. The tree was wider than it was tall.
"That one is a castle."

"And who lives there?"

"The king elf! And the queen. And the prince. They
talk to the birds and they watch me play. They watch
you in the garden."

"Can you see them?"

"/ can," Daniel said. "They're dirty. But they make
things grow."

"Like what things?"

"All kinds of things. Roses. Rhodies. Everything! Just
ask them, Mom!"

One day, Daniel's eyes were on the sky as he rode
nis bicycle. The crows were calling down to him, and he
strained so hard to hear what they were saying that he

25*

Brace Holland Rogers

pedaled right onto the road where the timber trucks
drove by too fast. Just like that, he was dead.

At first his parents grieved as any parents might grieve
for any son. Marnie looked at the grass around her gar-
den, and she was angry. How dare it keep growing.
Didn't it know the world was dead? Richard stared at
the unopened packages that came from his clients. Why
had he ever thought that images were interesting to
shape? They were only empty echoes of a world that
was itself empty.

As the days passed, they did not cease to mourn. They
found no comfort in one another, saw no solace in each
other's eyes. Indeed, the time came when Richard and
Marnie looked at each other and saw no one at all.
There was no one there to see. "Three take away one
leaves zero," said the emptiness that once was Richard.

And the emptiness that once was Marnie said, "If he's
gone, then nothing else can be."

So it was that they turned their backs on one another
and each began to weave a speli. Richard began to
weave at his computer, and Marnie in her garden. And
as they wove, a silence fell over the house and garden
both. No birds sang. The blackberry brambles twined
their way across the road. The air between the house
and the world began to shimmer. When the FedEx
trucks came with packages, the drivers could not find
the tire ruts that turned from the main road.

Richard wove with numbers, with computer words,
with photographs of Daniel and images of birds. He
wove a world of light and digitized bird song, a world
visible only through the screen. In that world he
searched for the Daniel beneath the image, Daniel who
was a boy, a creature of songs and feathers, the original
of an image scanned and vectored and rotated, morphed
and masked and animated. All through the nights, he
searched the images for Daniel, who would fill the empty
world again.

Marnie wove with words and soil and leaves.
"Where?" she said. "Where?" In her silent garden, she
broke the ground with a spading fork and sifted through
the clumps. She parted the stiff foliage of the rhododen-
drons, searching the shadows. From time to time she

WITH HIS OWN WINGS

2S7

turned toward the cherry tree, feeling the eyes of the
elves upon her and asked, "Where is he?" so they might
show her which stem or leaf it was that hid her son from
her. And day by day, as the elves invisibly guided her
hand, their world became visible to her. The garden
began to bear Daniel's shape—his face was a shadow in
the plum tree, his hand was in the twisting of a daylily
root. All through the days Marnie worked, sleeping in
the nights. AH through the days, she searched for traces
of Daniel, who could make her whole again.

As they worked, the shells around their emptiness be-
came more and more brittle. Richard still worked
through the nights, and then through the days, and he
never entered the garden. Marnie gardened every day,
and then into the nights, and she never entered the
house. Each forgot the other. The blackberry brambles
grew higher and higher around the house. The air be-
came thick with silence.

At last the days and nights grew gray, each becoming
like the other. Neither sun nor stars showed between the
blackberries that began to lace a canopy over the garden.

And still they worked.

In the house, light began to tumble from the screen
that could not contain it. Daniel's image stepped into
the world of the house, and he embraced his father.
Richard cried out for joy.

In the garden, Marnie harvested the shapes and shad-
ows of Daniel. To the dayliiy root of his hand, she added
the apple branch of his arm. She brought these to the
shadow of his face in the plum tree, added the spine
that grew out of the Shasta rose. "Show me!" she said
to the elves. And her fingers moved against stem and
thorn, twined leaf and root to shadow, until at last Dan-
iel's green shade stepped whole into the world of the
garden, and he embraced his mother. Marnie wept
happy tears.

The light in the house grew bright, and brighter still.
The edge of the garden glowed with it.

The green shadows of the garden deepened, and
stretched toward the house.

At the window, light and darkness wavered like a flag
of black and brilliance. Richard's eye was drawn to it at

258

Brace Holland Rogers

the same time that Marnie glanced up. For the first time
in an age, they met each other's eyes.

He is dying, Marnie thought, for there were deep
shadows under her husband's eyes and he was pale as
paper. Looking into his arms, Marnie saw what was kill-
ing him. What glittered around her husband was nothing
but a game of images and sound effects. "That's not
Daniel!" she cried. "That's only memory and light!"

She is nearly dead, Richard thought, for his wife was
skin on bones and smeared with dirt. And for what? For
shadows? The bundle she held in her arms was rose
stems tied to dirty taproots and hung with spider web.
"That's not Daniel!" he called out to her. "That's only
hope and thorns!"

With those words, the light in the house winked out
and the shadows in the garden faded. Richard stood
alone for a moment, looking at the hands that had held
his Daniel. Marnie wept.

The air was still and silent. The light inside and out
was gray.

Richard opened the door. He opened his mouth, but
there could not yet be words between them. He went to
her and held her.

"He's gone," Marnie said.

Richard held her closer.

"He's gone," Richard said.

Together they returned to the dark house to sleep
without dreaming, without memory, without hope.

Slowly, silently while they slept, the roof of blackberry
vines began to unwind. Thorny tendrils grew back upon
themselves. Bit by bit, the thorny ceiling opened,
shrank back.

The wind that had been absent lifted the curtains. One
by one, the insects that had been silent began to sing.
The gray sky opened into blue.

Richard and Marnie woke to one thought, one
absence.

They washed their faces. For the first time in a long
time, they remembered to eat. And then they went out
into the light of the garden, then into the meadow. They
walked across the wet morning grass. Barn swallows,

WITH HIS OWN WINGS

2S9

blue backs shining in the sun, spun tight circles around
them.

Later, as they walked back toward the house, a scrub
jay flew over their heads and landed in the great grand-
father cherry tree. It sang with a bright rasping that
sounded just exactly like a scrub jay.

THE UNBETRAYABLE
REPLY

by Peter Crowther

Since the World and British Fantasy Award-nominated War-
row Houses (1992), Peter Crowther has edited or coedited
eight further anthologies, continued to produce reviews and
interviews for a variety of publications on both sides of the
Atlantic, sold some 50 of his own short stores, and com-
pleted Escardy Gap, a collaborative novel with James Love-
grove published in September 1996. A solo novel, a short
story collection, more anthologies and Escardy Gap II are
all currently under way.

The trouble with discarded conversations was you
could never find them when you needed them.
Skrodge stared around the room. He didn't simply
look, he stared. He peered at nooks and crannies, even
time-glanced forward and backward in case the words
he sought had somehow been temporally displaced—but
he took great care not to dwell on the mischievous
shades of future possibilities. He shook his thick-maned
head—almost dislodging his steep but somewhat crum-
pled conical hat—and lifted his right leg from the floor,
taking hold of the thigh in his hands to suspend the
weight. Then, with a furrowed brow and eyes closed in
concentration, he passed wind with all his might, hoping
against all reasonable hope that he might not follow
through. Not again.

The air (and the noise) mercifully ceased, and Skrodge
was more able to turn his full attention to the quest. He
had always enjoyed a quest, particularly in his younger
days, shlepping across the world in one direction, only
to shlepp all the way back again scant days later—and
with little but a spell-filled book and the occasional rune-
etched artifact to guide and protect him.

260

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

261

The acknowledged King of the Elf Kingdoms—but
now more old man than maker of magics—Skrodge's
searches were few and inconsequential. But not so this
one, he mused to himself. This one was important. He
could feel it in his bones, and even in those of the many
subjects which he had implanted over the years to mini-
mize the onslaught of age. He dragged his arm-worn,
wing-backed chair across the dusty floor and positioned
it carefully. For a moment, he watched the constantly
moving figures carved into the scrolled wood. The fig-
ures moved slowly and blindly, negotiating the thick
handiwork of spiders where once they had traveled
faster and unhampered, beneath long runs of hessian
and the finest silk. Skrodge climbed upon the once-proud
throne of his reign and stretched toward the rafters.

Where to start?

He reached up and curled his long, sticklike fingers
around a small cocoon of fluff which he tugged at gently
until it pulled away from the beam. Remaining on the
chair, his face alight with anticipation, Skrodge picked
at the fur ball, undoing the long, gossamer strands of
conversation-dust. He concentrated so as not to break
the threads and thus muddle the words. As he worked,
the tiny, elongated arm of one of the imprisoned sprites
curled away from the chair back and touched his leg
before withdrawing. Skrodge kicked his leg against the
wood, barking his shin. He muttered gloomily and
continued.

After several minutes of careful picking he created a
small split out of which, with a soft phttttt!, a wadge of
dialogue flew into the air, traveling around the ceiling
like a trapped bird. It wasn't the one he sought.

"How many years until never, Lamb?" he heard his
long-ago voice ask. "Too many to worry, oh, King,"
came the warbled reply. "Why does time concern you
so?" it added. "Oh," his own voice said, sounding tired
and paradoxically older than it did now, "it does not
worry me. I inquire only that it may pass." The sounds
faded into the rafters like liquor haze and were gone,
echoing faintly as the old wood gobbled them up
greedily.

He dusted his hands together and heard the chittering

T

262

Peter Crowther

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

clash of mutterances and teeth-clack, and then looked
around the room at the other minuscule balls. He set
his face in grim determination and droned a few words,
a simple flattering, and waited until his arm had fully
extended. Then he reached out and brushed his pliant
fingers around the dust and grime and cobwebs and
watched them fall and split open, tumbling long-forgotten
words into the late afternoon.

"The sea shouts loudest in the autumn—"
"When do we count the sometime blessings of—"
"There's a man on the beach, look, over—"
Skrodge's room was suddenly afire with talk, not one
conversation but many, all of the conversations that had
taken place within the four walls since the last cleaning,
long, long ago. The words and phrases fell freely, wafting
and dopplering around the room, a hubbub of questions
and answers and opinions and fears and suppositions.
Skrodge stood silently still on his throne, concentrating
on the many voices—most of them his own—as, one by
one, the voices grew fainter, and fainter, and fainter still,
until, like a plague of fluttering balloons spewing air
onto the winds, they faded away completely.

Nothing. The words he wanted had not been there.
The King of Elves pushed back the sleeves of his
cardigan and tutted, shaking his head. Getting down
from the chair he thought how good it had been to hear
Lamb's voice again after so many years.

"It was good to hear you again, Lamb," he said to
the carcass hanging from the window top. The carcass
grinned its rictus grin and turned slowly in a sea breeze
which drifted through the open window. The words
drifted up above his head and collided gently with one
of the ceiling rafters, immediately pulling dust to them
and folding themselves into a tiny cocoon which adhered
itself to a small patch of splintered grain.

The mark on the wall was slightly larger again, he
noted as he shifted the chair back to its formal position.
It had spread around the latest of his penciled outlines
and now looked for all the world like a long stain of
spat bilberry juice, narrow at the top, wider in the mid-
dle, and trailing off to a spindly, shaky taper. He felt a
mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He had spoken

263

of something to do with this he was certain, and not so
very long ago. But what had he said? And to whom?

He looked around the clutter of furniture, letting his
eyes wash over the old-woman skin of dear Assidora,
the Elf Queen, hanging over the hearth . . . letting them
drink in the pleasing patches of death-light around the
old couch where his wife had breathed her last, and the
rickety three-legged chair and matching table where he
had scribed most of his books of spells and incantations.
Looking around the room he caught sight, out of his eye
corners, of the dust-protected one-sided conversation he
had just had with Lamb as it detached itself from the
ceiling and drifted to the polished worktop beneath,
where it landed with a dull plip.

Skrodge frowned. He walked over to the worktop and
lifted the ball from where it lay, turning it in his
hands . . . gently, so that he would not free the words
so soon after they had been cocooned. The ball seemed
secure enough and surely sufficiently adherent to stay
on the ceiling. He looked up and saw the unmistakable
browny-yellow ring of a watermark above him and the
faintest sheen of grease emanating from its center. Could
that be it? Could the conversation he sought also have
fallen from its place amid the rafters? He looked back
at the worktop. There were no other conversation balls
to be seen.

At first Skrodge felt thwarted, but just as he was about
to sit down on the floor to meditate, he noticed that if
he looked a certain way at the worktop, he could discern
a circular mark which was noticeably cleaner than the
worktop that surrounded it. He bent down and consid-
ered the mark from an even sharper angle. There it was,
plain to see. Something had resided in that spot . . .
something he had removed only recently and which,
even now, possibly contained the information he sought.
Skrodge concentrated on the circular mark and suddenly
his eyes widened. He had it!

Spinning around, Skrodge marched across the room,
ignoring the bulbous stain that shimmered on the wall—
and which, had he but stopped to consider it, had grown
appreciably larger even in the few minutes since his last
check—to the uneven shelves that lined the sides of the

264

Peter Crowther

doorway. Without hesitating, he lifted an old, cracked
pot from a clutter of parchments and bone fragments.
Holding the pot before him, he blew a mighty breath
and sent a myriad tiny dust motes careering through the
doorway and into the sea air outside. Then, carefully
averting his eyes, and hoping against all hope, he held
the object to his chest with his left hand and inserted
his right into the fluted opening of its neck.

His carefully searching fingers found two soft shapes
inside the pot. He lifted them out, allowing them to roll
gently into the palm of his hand, and replaced the pot
on the shelf. Then, leaning against the racking he had
constructed for sticks and other makeshift supports, he
placed one of the balls on the window ledge white he
began to undo the other. After a minute or so, the loos-
ened strands twanged abruptly, and a flurry of words
sprang into the air, narrowly missing the ends of his
whiskers, skittered around his towering hat, and darted
to the ceiling where they ricocheted, amid a small
shower of sparkling dust, and quickly gathered them-
selves into their original sequence.

'Then what is the holder of all answers?"

The voice was that of Skrodge, some few months ago.
The question, he now remembered, had occurred toward
the end of a conversation between him and a sea-elf who
had washed up on the rocks with a broken fin. Skrodge
had repaired the fin and, by means of several beakers
of strong mead laced with a few leaves of gungic weed,
restored the elf's good humor.

"Chimneys, spires and treetops," came the reply, de-
livered in a brittle chimelike voice, "for only they can
see both what is to come and what has been."

Quickly spent, the words effervesced in a spray against
the rafters and were gone. Skrodge scratched his beard,
adjusted his hat, and reached for the other ball.

"What is the strongest element in the universe?"

The words were, again, his own. This was a meditative
monologue, spoken on one storm-tossed night when the
winds had swirled and the seas had raged, and Skrodge
had by necessity cloaked his escarpment in a thin veil of
tranquility that it might survive the elements at play,

"Is it," his voice went on, "the wind that blows down

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

265

the forests and sends the fragile houses scurrying along
the ground? Or is it the water that rises up in huge
columns, flattening all before it without mercy? Or, may-
hap, is it the fire that rages in one or another part of
the land, waiting to erupt in a cleansing conflagration
and remove all that ever stood before? Still yet, might
it be the earth itself, its unimaginable bulk shifting and
tearing, without thought or design, to swallow up all
that exists?"

There was a short silence, a hissing of air from within
the ball, and then, "No, it is none of these. The strongest
element of all is a simple one: it is belief. For without
that, no other power could exist."

With a sharp squeak, like a duck's fart, the ball im-
ploded and the freed words rough-and-tumbled along
the rafters and out of the open window. Skrodge fol-
lowed them with his eyes, saw the shimmering words,
mere ghosts of old thoughts, skim the air currents and
pop like soap bubbles.

In the distance, far along the uneven and craggy prom-
ontory that connected his escarpment to the far-off
mainland, Skrodge could see a turbulence.

The way to the mainland was long and twisted, wind-
ing its way through numerous spells and keepsakes until
it reached the shoreline. But though Skrodge could see
the vaguest of outlines which denoted the world of man-
kind, he knew that, from the other direction, his own
small world was protected from unfriendly eyes. How-
ever, he noted now with the faintest first sign of concern,
the turbulence he had identified was directly above the
promontory and some way out from the shore.

How strange.

Skrodge shuffled over to a tallboy of drawers from
which a multitude of funnels and clothes scraps half-
tumbled. He thrust his bony hands into the third drawer
and felt among the bric-a-brac until his hands found
what he was looking for and he pulled it out into the
light. An eyeglass.

Holding the eyeglass close to his chest, Skrodge
walked to the door. As he passed the wall on which the
stain throbbed darkly, he closed his eyes. It was much

266

Peter Crowtker

bigger now . . . and was it his imagination or did it
actually seem to be moving as if with a life of its own?

Once outside, Skrodge lifted the eyeglass to his right
eye and looked through it. It took him a few minutes to
get his bearings, but soon he was able to discern that
section of the promontory, all those miles away, above
which the storm raged. The sight of it took him back,
shook him where he stood, and he pulled his head away
from the instrument as though he had been stung by a
sea wasp. He shook his head and blinked his eyes
quickly in rapid succession.

He had seen clouds roiling in the sky, from which
sprang great lengths of orange light. In the sea around
the promontory, he had seen huge waves, capped with
gray foam, lashing the already crumbling edges of the
path. But worst of all, he had seen something else. Some-
thing on the path itself. Something coming toward him.

He looked again.

Now he could see it plainly. It was a figure ... a
blurred, dark shape which shimmered as he watched.

Skrodge fumbled with the rusty mechanism on the
side of the eyeglass in an attempt to make the image
larger, but it was no use. He lowered the glass and stared
out over the ocean, thrusting his face into the wind and
feeling his whiskers blow with its force. As he stared, he
noted with dismay that the turbulence now seemed more
distinct to the naked eye than it had only minutes ear-
lier. He turned around and strode back to his hut.

As he replaced the eyeglass in the drawer, he looked
across at the wall. That the shape was larger now was
unarguable. But, worse than that, it was now visibly
moving, shifting, and swirling within itself. As he kept
looking at it, Skrodge saw that the shape resembled that
of a person and that the movements looked for all the
world like the act of walking.

There could be no mistake. The shape on the wall was
exactly that of the distant figure making its way toward
the escarpment. And as the figure got nearer, the shape
got bigger. Already it had covered most of its original
wall and spilled off at either side and onto ceiling and
floor.

Skrodge   ran  back  outside  and  clapped  his  hands

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

267

loudly, calling above the sound of the wind, "Hear me,
all you who live with me in harmony. I, Skrodge, the
King of Elves and all things magic, call you to me for a
favor. A piece of information. Nothing more. Hear me
and come to me. Come now."

And Skrodge made the appropriate divining signs in
the air and then sank to his knees in the sandy soil in
front of his hut where the land narrowed to begin its
journey across the swirling waters of the ocean.

Soon, they were all about him, all the creatures of the
escarpment. There were griffins and centaurs and even
a unicorn or two. Small, scurrying things on a multitude
of legs, large things on thick pairs of trunk-legs and even
a single, lofty creature perched upon a single foot which
telescoped and sprang the animal into the air as a means
of propulsion.

Skrodge gathered them around himself, stroking
manes and rubbing fur, whispering phrases of beauty and
encouragement to settle their nervousness. And when
they were quiet and attentive, Skrodge asked them if
they knew anything about the distant figure. They did
not.

The old elf dispersed them then and called together
all the flying things that coursed and swooped above his
escarpment, asking them the same question.

Amid a flurrying of wings and a rain of feathers of all
shapes and sizes—making the scene resemble one huge
piliowfight in which all of the weapons had suddenly
been rendered unusable—the birds and bats listened at-
tentively, the silence being interrupted only by the occa-
sional plop and thrrrrp! from one or another airborne
backside. But the meeting had been in vain. They did
not know either.

And thus it was, leaning above the swirling waters,
cupping his wizened hands to his mouth, Skrodge issued
a further Royal Elfly Ordinance to all the things that
lived in the sea. As he waited for them to appear, he
looked to the horizon and saw that the turbulence had
spread so that it covered the skyline. Way off still, he
could now see the figure clearly.

Within a few minutes, Skrodge was repeating his ques-
tion to a host of finny friends, including mermaids—not

268

Peter Crowtker

one of which ceased preening herself during the interro-
gation—and even old King Neptune himself. None of
them knew anything about the approaching figure.

"But it is getting nearer, my brother," Neptune mused
from his position on the rock. "And it seems colder,
too," he added.

Skrodge nodded, following the Sea-King's gaze, and
pulled his cardigan tighter about his frail frame.

Neptune turned to him and, just for a minute, the old
man's eyes seemed far off ... as though they were look-
ing past Skrodge. Then they refocused and Neptune
smiled, though it was a smile not without an element of
sadness. "I think it's time to go, old man," he said. "Our
time is almost done." And, with a loud splash, Neptune
rolled off the edge and into the water, disappearing im-
mediately beneath the waves.

In a final attempt to glean information, Skrodge called
forth the dead.

As always, they were with him immediately, wraithlike,
opaque, and translucent; they skittered about his body
like wind-blown scarves. Patiently, Skrodge asked them
the question. But the answer was the same.

When the last of the animals and the birds and the
fish-things and even the discorporeal had gone, leaving
the old elf completely alone, Skrodge shuffled to the
edge of his land and hunkered his feet beneath his bot-
tom. He pulled his cardigan down around his ankles
and waited.

He no longer looked at his hut. The last time he had
looked at it, following Neptune's departure into the
waves, the stain had filled the hut's inside with a cold
darkness and, even then, the constantly undulating shape
had been edging its way from the hut doorway across
the land itself.

He waited in this way for several hours, facing into
the steadily rising wind and holding his hat in place with
his hand.

At last, the storm and the figure that marked it had
speeded up considerably. Now Skrodge could see clearly,
though the winds had grown in intensity and a stinging
rain drove across the land and into his face. When it

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

269

reached the end of the promontory, it stopped. Skrodge
rose wearily to his feet and walked to meet it.

They were in the eye of the storm, a relative calmness
around which everything changed and turned and
crumbled.

The figure remained stationary as Skrodge made his
way toward it. It was a man, of that there could be no
doubt. All around him the dust flew in flurries, and the
rain squalled in huge, wet sheets.

On his head, the man wore some form of protective
headdress, like an upturned large-rimmed, black bowl.
Nestled on the bridge of his nose was a contraption con-
taining two circular pieces of glass wound around with
a wire which stretched to and around his ears. In each
of the ears was a shiny object from which some kind of
tube extended and disappeared around the back of the
ear itself.

Skrodge said nothing, only stared.

The stranger also stared.

On his feet were polished black slippers, each with a
thick sole and an even thicker heel section. In the blow-
ing wind, Skrodge could see that, beneath the strange,
dark leggings—each one bearing a sharp creases right
down the center—the stranger wore some kind of addi-
tional covering that seemed to go even into the footwear.

Above the leggings, the stranger wore a tunic. The
tunic was dark, presumably to match the leggings, and
fastened together by one of three buttons. Above the
top button, the tunic cut away to the outer edges of the
collarbones, thus exposing the chest area to the ele-
ments. The chest was protected, however, by another
garment, a plain cloth of pure whiteness boasting an ad-
ditional collar from which hung a piece of patterned
cloth apparently suspended from the stranger's neck.

In one hand, the stranger carried what looked at first
like some kind of weapon. It seemed to be made of
cloth, but Skrodge saw on closer examination that there
was some kind of instrument concealed beneath the
folds of material, pointed at one end—the end which
rested on the ground—and curved into a handle at tbe
other.

In the other hand, the stranger held a multicolored

270

Peter Crowther

THE UNBETRAYABLE REPLY

271

bag bearing some kind of runic inscription. Skrodge read
it aloud, his voice faltering in the wind: "NIKE." Be-
neath the word was a strange flourish, like a signing-off.

"Nike?" said Skrodge again. The word seemed for-
eign, and this to a man who was a past master of all
languages and arcane scriptures. Clearly it had to be the
man's name. Without waiting for confirmation, Skrodge
responded by slapping his left hand on his bony chest
and saying, in as deep a voice as he could muster,
"Skrodge!"

The stranger nodded and rested the bag on the ground
between them. Then he crouched down and pulled open
a metal fastening composed of many small teeth. Pulling
back the sides of the bag, the stranger reached inside
and pulled out a clump of white hair.

Skrodge frowned.

"The beard of Santa Claus, King of Children," the
stranger said. He thrust the hair back into the bag and
lifted out a small fork, broken at one end. "The trident
of Satan, King of the Underworld," he said.

The fork went back into the bag to be replaced by a
small pouch which swung on a speckled green cord. The
stranger pulled the cord and emptied a few coins into
his hand. "The gold from the very rainbow's end."

And so it went on, the two of them crouched at the
end of the promontory: the oddly attired stranger (whose
name might or might not be Nike) and the old elf named
Skrodge. Behind one lay the vast panoply of mankind;
behind the other, a simple hut.

The objects were withdrawn from and returned to the
bag without any explanation save for a simple descrip-
tion. Among them were a pair of vampire's teeth on a
cord; the shards of the vial which had once contained
the waters of the fountain of youth; a tuft comprising the
strands from the last flying carpet; a five-leafed clover; a
pair of tiny buckled shoes once owned by the King of
the Leprechauns; and, finally, the tiny, jewel-encrusted
brassiere of Phelaine, Queen of Fairyland ... the small
strap on which, Skrodge noted uneasily, had been bro-
ken, the clasp buckled and bent.

As the last one went back into the bag, the stranger
restored the teeth and rose to his feet.

"Who are you?" Skrodge asked.

The stranger shrugged. "I have many names. Call me
'Civilization.' Call me 'Reason.' Call me 'Doubt.' "

"But not 'Nike'?" Skrodge inquired.

"No," came the reply, "not 'Nike.' But call me any-
thing you like; a name is not important."

Skrodge looked back at his hut and saw that the
darkness had blotted it out so that he could hardly see
it. He looked up into the sky and saw that the storm
had now extended beyond and around them, and was
already far away out from Skrodge's escarpment and
up the sky path, behind the hut, which led to the eter-
nal light.

Looking back, Skrodge said, "I think I will call you
'Stain.' "

The stranger shrugged again. "It is as good as any-
thing," he said without any trace of emotion.

"What do you want of me?"

"Your hat."

"My hat? Why do you want my hat?"

"It's symbolic."

Skrodge frowned. "It's a hat," he said, correcting the
stranger. "My hat."

"To you, it's a hat. Now. Once it was a crown," the
stranger said as he reached out and removed Skrodge's
conical hat. "To me, it's a symbol." For a moment he
regarded the hat with an expression which was at once
part sneer and part sympathy, fingering the moons and
stars and the many faded runic symbols with a perfectly
manicured hand. Then he crouched down and, undoing
the bag once more, pushed the crumpled hat inside.

Suddenly, the Lord of the Elf Kingdoms felt old. He
sat down on the ground with a thud, thrusting out a
hand to steady himself. A sharp pain hit the hand and
Skrodge pulled it back and rubbed it. When he looked
at it, he saw that the hand was black. As he rubbed the
blackness, one of the fingers cracked and splintered. He
took hold of the finger gently and saw it crumble,
watched the dust settle on the tattered fringe of his long
cardigan and then blow away in the wind. There was
no pain.

Skrodge looked at the place where he had rested the

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Peter Crowther

hand just in time to see its outline on the ground filling
up with darkness like an imprint in the sand fills with
the oncoming tide. The stain now stretched from where
the hut had been—for there was no longer any trace of
his former dwelling—to within a few inches of where he
now sat. As he watched the stain edge closer to his
cardigan, Skrodge asked, "And what is this . . . this
creeping darkness which gobbles all before it?"

"Progress," the stranger said. "A new reign."

And, lifting his bag, the stranger stepped over the Elf
King and walked through the gathering darkness to the
first stair that led up into the sky. The stair which King
Skrodge had protected these many long years.

"Where do you go now?" Skrodge called into the
wind.

The man stopped, one foot on the first stair, and
turned, shifting the bag bearing his name from hand to
hand. Already the storm had traveled up way ahead of
him.

"I go to the final court, to stand before the last of the
old thrones," he said softly and, Skrodge thought, not
without sympathy. Not without some small element of
regret.

Skrodge shifted himself and grimaced at the effort.
"What . . . what is it that you seek from him?"

The man shrugged. "Whatever he holds most dear. I'll
know when I see it." He frowned and, just for a second,
made as though to lift his hand in ... what? A symbol
of recognition? Of fealty? Or simply one of leaving? But
the hand dropped quickly and grasped the hem of his
dark leggings. Turning to the stairs, the man said, "Sleep
well, King of Wonder."

The stranger began to climb.

As the darkness spread into his right leg and deep
inside his right buttock, Skrodge droned a short incanta-
tion. Then, reaching with his good hand into his cardigan
pocket, he threw a handful of dust into the air. The last
thing he saw was the strands of the conversation he had
just had with the stranger gathering themselves into a
cocoon and dancing off against the wind, back along the
promontory to the world beyond.

I

THE VNBETRAYABLE REPLY

273

"Believe!" cried Skrodge, though the word was lost
in the storm.

Soon the darkness had spread across the entire escarp-
ment and, even above the distantly rumbling thunder, a
new sound could be heard from the direction of the now
empty stairway.

It sounded for all the world like the knocking of
great knees.

MORTAL THINGS

by Esther Friesner

Esther Friesner's latest novel is Child of the Eagle. She has
written more than twenty novels and coedited two fantasy
collections. Other fiction of hers appears in Excalibur, The
Book of Kings, and has made numerous appearances in
Fantasy and Science Fiction and other prose magazines.
She lives in Madison, Connecticut.

All in the garden was grim and cold. The old woman
plucked the edges of her cloak closer around her
with fingers knob-jointed and red, their skin cracked and
chapped with winter's chill. The lonesome stone cross
rose high on the little slope where the garden's fallow
beds climbed to meet the forest. It was a beacon of silver
more than stone, and her tired eyes answered its sum-
mons with the mute submission of a beaten dog.

There was no wind. In the sky, the stars stabbed
through the purple dark, piercing and icy as a woman's
sudden, curt refusal of her lover. Smudges of blue
hugged the tranquil humps and hollows of the banked
snow, until the old woman's passing churned the solemn
whiteness to a tangle of shadows. Her cape cut a plow's
furrow all the way up the hillside until she came at last
to rest her wizened cheek against the rough indifference
of carven rock. The warmth of her sigh set a darkening
patch of dampness against the cleanly cut granite, a
moist breath of life that froze at once to ice's deathly
sheen.

"Widdershins," she muttered. "Old Nancy told me
that it must be widdershins 'round the cross to call up
such as he. Gibberish, but still it's all I have to use in
the last ditch. Perhaps all I need do is what he told me,
but it won't hurt to tie a double knot. Old Nancy claims

274

MORTAL THINGS

27S

she knows their ways well. Firsthand, poor daft creature,
though if she remembers even that much it's a wonder.
And I'm even more daft for taking her counsel, yet I
must be sure. Now which way—?" She lifted her weary
face to the moon, which shone in full glory clear of the
pine trees. A pause, a grumble over a mind that would
not yield its wit as quickly as it had been wont to do,
and then a choice made, a direction taken, and slow,
majestic steps that still recalled the grace of a courtly
dancing measure to trace a path three times around the
silent cross on the hill.

She brought her lone procession to a halt only three
steps past the place where she had begun it and glanced
backward over one shoulder at the wreath of trodden
snow her booted feet had left behind. The rich velvet of
her cloak caressed a cheek that had known still more
tender caresses in its time. A scent of sweet herbs still
clung to the heavy fabric, gift of a son's devotion.

"Devotion . . . But love?" She shook her head. In the
years when men had sworn that they were captive in her
golden curls, she had valued the word as lightly as laugh-
ter, easily come by, easily dismissed, easily called back
to her again with a snap of the fingers or a flutter of her
smoke-lashed eyes.

And now? She turned her shoulders to the cross and
let her bare head tilt back until it touched the stone.
She could feel the chill of it hard against her skin in the
spot where the golden curls had grayed and thinned and
fallen away into an ever widening space of naked scalp,
prickling with tiny bumps like a plucked chicken's skin.
Colorless lashes rimmed eyes gone from the blue of
mountain lakes to the milky gray of ash-scummed ditch
water. "Love," she repeated, without bitterness, without
hope, and she touched the ring.

It was very small and very plain, carved of a green
stone speckled brown like a toad's back. She wore it on
the littlest finger of her left hand just as she had always
worn it for sixty years. Her marriage band had vanished
soon after her husband's death—tucked away with all
her lost happiness was the tale she told her son—but this
circlet never left her finger. To others' eyes it seemed to
be a smooth hoop of stone, but only she knew that there

276

Esther Friesner

was a tiny dimple, a faint indentation hidden by the
curve of the next finger over. Though her fingers were
thin and other rings might turn upon them at will, this
one never moved from its place unless she was the one
to give it a deliberate turn. Now she twisted the ring to
bring this dint into the moon's sight, filling the shallow
cup with diamond light, then raised it to her lips and
drank the dregs of the moon.

This done, she called his name into the dark.

No branches rustled to herald his coming from the
forest way. No snow, frozen to a sparkling crust by win-
ter's harsh enchantment, crunched underfoot to warn her
of his coming from the garden. He was simply there, a
presence at once sudden and eternal. His tall, slender
shape made all things around him shiver into place, pro-
claiming that it was not he who had suddenly become
visible, but they. The world's shabbiness intruding on his
beauty was the shock, not that an old mortal woman
had performed certain rites and let his name fall from
her withered lips.

"Ruth?" His name from her lips teetered on the brink
of sacrilege, as if one poured the sweet and precious
blood of saints from a stoat's skull, but her name on his
was heart music, a foul thing made fair by magic. He
raised a hand, paler even than the moon's maiden light,
and took a step toward her as if he meant to stroke
her hair.

"Stay where you are!" The shrillness, the vehemence
of her voice scraped the night air between them bleeding
raw. She bowed her head, cupped hands over a face
whose silken skin had turned to oak bark and flint, and
sobbed into her fingers, "Don't touch me."

"But why?" His plea crept over her skin, waking old
dreams. She knew that if she lifted her head she would
be compelled to look into his eyes, and then she would
be lost forever, drowned in seas of green where golden
mermaids swam and sang. Oh, sweet green seas without
a shore, and nights of love without an end, and breath
that fell over her bared breasts as gently as a tumble of
apple blossom!

Her hands dropped from her face. She parted the
edges of her cloak and gazed down. Her breasts hung

MORTAL THINGS

277

slack and low, two drained wineskins where once—
once—

"Because I have grown old," she said, and her voice
broke into a thousand tears.

He let her weep. He did not try to cover over the
sounds of her sorrow with hearty chatter, as her husband
used to do, or to implore her to suppress her tears, which
was her son's way. She cried, and when the tears had
softened to long, shuddery breaths, she stopped of her
own accord. Only then did she lift up her eyes, only then
did he speak.

"Old?" His brows like the feathery antennae of moths
knit together hard in perplexity. "Is this some new law
of your kind, Ruth, a thing like betrothal and marriage
and honor and ah" the rest you taught me the other
night? Can it stain me through your touch? Will it steal
anything from me or mine?"

"No," she replied, trying not to stare at him so greed-
ily, for his elfin grace was a feast for eyes left starved
by earthly things. "It has no power over you, my dearest,
and all power over me."

"Then why—?"

"I am afraid that you still keep the other Ruth before
your eyes, beloved, and that if you touch me, it will be
her death."

"What other Ruth can there be?" Faun's ears pricked
forward, and perplexity shone in eyes like willow leaves.

"A young Ruth, sweet lord of Faerie. A Ruth who
came to life in your embrace and died within the com-
pass of her eighteenth year. A Ruth to whom you of-
fered up a kingdom, and who fled from it like the foolish
child she was, for all that she was a settled matron with
an infant in her care."

"Oh, yes!" The elf looked for all the world like a
schoolboy who has only in the nick of time recalled the
answer to the question which his schoolmaster has posed
him. "Your little son. I saw him sleeping in his cradle
and was so vexed with the answer you'd given me, for
his sake, that I ordered my sister to spend full half what
was left of the night, matting up his hair. See!" And he
drew up a wisp of silver chain from which a crystal rain-

278

Esther Friesner

drop dangled, a knotted lock of baby's hair imprisoned
in its depths. "I claimed this as my trophy."

"So that you could also claim a victory, whether it
was yours to claim or not?" The old woman chuckled.
"You've lingered in our mortal shadows too long, my
dearest one; you grow too much like men." She shook
her head. "I was occupied almost all the next day, pick-
ing out the elflocks from my baby's silky hair and desir-
ing the proper curses to hurl after you for leaving me
that task as a parting gift. And now my baby is a man
whose hair is no more than a fringe of snowcloud gray
above the ears, and his sons, too, spend hours before
the looking glass, watching their foreheads climb,"

She laughed over that, and he laughed with her until
she realized that the two sounds heard together was the
trill of birdsong trapped by the wheeze of an ancient
pipe organ's leaky bellows. The shame of it killed her
mirth cold.

"Ruth?" He stepped toward her, long feet sheathed
in delicate brown slippers, sprinklings of amber glowing
against leather tanned softer than a kitten's ear. "If you
will not laugh with me or let me touch you, will you let
me go?"

"Let you go ... Oh no, my love, not yet, not yet. I
haven't come out at this time of night, in weather that
sinks steel teeth into my old bones, merely for one last
sight of your pretty face. For that, I have my dreams."
"Then why have you summoned me?"
"Shall I tell you straight out, or will it please you to
guess? We once could play at guessing games for hours,
you and I, when my husband was away at Court and all
the servants were busy snoring in their beds. Do you
remember?"

The elf inclined his head and smiled, a slow, sweet
smile that was the sun's own self emerging from behind
the moon's black shadow. "We played at forfeits. For
every riddle I set you that you could not answer, you
paid me with a kiss; for every riddle you set me that I
could not answer, I paid you with a gem."

"I filled your wicked mouth with my kisses, but when
I opened up my jewel box next day to count my win-
nings, all I found were acorns and chestnuts and burrs."

MORTAL THINGS

279

her eyes twinkled. "So you see, I got the better of the
bargain. Our cook could make something of chestnuts."
Against her better judgment she began to laugh again,
but there was a flash of blue silk beneath the moon as
the elf's arm shot across her sight, strong fingers taking
her hand captive in his own.

"We are past games, Ruth. Answer me," he said, eyes
no longer warm, alien seas, but colder than snakes,
colder than stones.

Ruth looked down, seeing once more his flesh against
her own. This time it was only one hand lying across the
other. Once it had been her pleasure to survey the lan-
guid tangle of their legs when they lay together after
love. Silver and gold, silver and gold, all hers to gloat
over like any common miser in his countinghouse.

"Gold to ash," she murmured, her eyes wandering
over the gnarled and liver-spotted and almost bloodless
ruin clasped in the glowing splendor of the elf's hand.
Then she raised her voice and said, "I've summoned you
because you left me with that power when I sent you
away." She pulled her hand free of his grasp and drew
the stone ring from her finger. "I've drunk moonlight
from it to call you to me only for this: To ask one favor
of your deathless grace and give you back your ring
again."

"What favor?" His face was closed and guarded with
mistrust. The ghost of an old night, long in the grave of
vanished years, rose up to let them both recall this same
garden, this same trysting place, a badly frightened
young woman whose monthly blood had ceased to flow
despite the fact that her wedded husband had not
crossed her bedroom threshold for over a six month, and
at her feet a creature less and more than human made
desperate as any mortal man by love. He had pressed
that very ring into her hand, forced it onto her finger,
laid a spell of binding over stone and flesh, making it
his pledge to grant her any boon she might desire, any
time she chose to ask it, even to the scouring of her
womb.

But she had not asked that. She had only run away.

"Bring her back to me," she said. She spoke it all in
a rush, driving the words from her lips like a stampede

2S0

Esther Friesner

of wild horses. "Let me see her, hold her, know her
once, this once, if only for a little, only a little—!"

He turned his face from hers. "She is dead," he said.
"You of all should know this. You birthed her and
looped a white ribbon around her neck and stole the
breath from her body as easily as if she'd been a kitten
you meant to drown."

Ruth shook her head violently, a stubborn look blaz-
ing in her eyes. "You lie, my lovely lord of Faerie. All
elves suck falseness from their mother's breasts, but you
are their king in this as in all things."

The green eyes narrowed. "Have a care, lady. You
presume."

"On what? On your good temper? Do you know noth-
ing of mortals? I have not many years left me in this
world, if I have any at all. Death stands beneath my
window and sometimes flings a handful of pebbles at the
pane to hurry me along to our tryst. I feel them lodging
in my joints and in my guts, all those small, burning,
aching pebbles. You can kill me if you like; I don't
fear dying."

"Then do you stil! fear your god so much as once you
claimed you did?" he challenged her. "You told me of
the torments hell reserves for adulterers in words so
vivid, so terrible that for once I rejoiced in my lack of
an immortal soul. But your hell punishes liars, too, my
love, and if you claim you did not kill our child, you lie,"

"I meant to kill her." The old woman bowed her head.
"That shame 1 can never deny. After I sent you away
that night, I called upon my God daily, imploring His
mercy, begging Him to keep my husband gone until my
time of confinement might come and go. God was merci-
ful, as is His wont with the worst of sinners. Sometimes
I wonder whether He leads us to the lip of the abyss in
order to enjoy a greater pleasure when He deigns to
snatch us back from our doom."

"So you did kill her," the elf lord insisted, ignoring
all the woman's talk of gods and mercy. Beautiful, age-
less as a stone, he cared nothing for the mortal currency
of souls. "So I was told, but still I did not want to believe
that you ever could—"

The old woman shook her head. "I didn't," she main-

MORTAL THINGS

281

tained. "Whoever brought you such news was deceived.
Before my belly grew big enough to catch the servants'
eyes, I took myself off on a journey of my own, suppos-
edly to visit a distant connection in the north, in the
shadow of the border. I left behind me a trumpery tale
of women's woes, too trivial for my husband to examine
closely even if he had come back from Court while I
was gone. How fortunate I was that he did not! And
with me I took a jewel, a gem, a priceless treasure, my
handmaiden, Nancy Blye."

She sighed and leaned one shoulder against the cold
stone cross. "Poor Nancy. All she has become is my
doing. She was such a bonny girl, so bright, so cunning!
Loyal as a dog, too, a skilled midwife, and greedy for
my gold. 1 knew she would obey me to the letter in all
things save one: She would not kill the child."

"Why not, for the proper price?" the elf asked. "Was
she afraid for her soul's sake?" He twisted a sneer into
his speech.

Ruth paid his sarcasm no mind. "Not for the sake of
any mortal thing, but for fear of you and your kind. I'd
told her the infant would be born half-elfin. She claimed
to have had truck with the Good Folk—her name for
your kindred, none of mine—many times before. Knowl-
edge bred awe, awe bred fear. She would not risk draw-
ing down your vengeance for all the gold I might give
her. And so, when the child was pushed out of my womb
at last and I lay spent from my labor, she snatched up
the infant and fled with it into the forest."

"The forest?" the elf repeated, wondering over this
new knowledge. "Where—?"

"Beyond the wild wind's back, for all that anyone here
ever knew. But in truth, you know the spot well: the
wood where we two first met, my dearest, that May eve
when I went out riding late because the devil was whis-
pering in the shadows and because I was too young for
sense. There is a cottage there, by the path that skirts the
ruined convent's garden. None go there but desperate
women, it is Nancy's place now, poor soul, poor elf-
shot soul. . . ."

A haze lay over the snow, the blue breath of winter
made visible in mist that lapped itself around the ankles

2X2

Esther Friesner

of elf and woman. It wreathed frost flowers up the shaft
of the stone cross and rimmed the moon's mocking face
with swansdown.

"I never knew your Nancy," the elf lord said, his face
keen as a hunting cat's. "I never laid arrow to bow to
bring her down. If you want to distract me with these
accusations out of your own guilt for what was between
us, find another fool."

"Oh!" Ruth's eyes widened with pain and pity. Al-
most without the body's will behind them, her hands
flew up to cradle her lover's face in a soft, papery clasp.
"Dear heart, I never said that it was your doing, the
dark touch that turned a pretty, singing girl into a crone
between sunset and sunrise! All I know of the matter is
this: That I labored hard to birth an infant girl; that I
fell into exhaustion before I could cut off her cries and
her life with the pretty, silken ribbon; that when I roused
myself to face the deed, there was nothing in the cradle
and no Nancy in the cottage; that I staggered from the
bed, calling my handmaid's name until sleep took me a
second time; that when I next woke, there was a dead
child in my arms, a little white ribbon tied too tightly
round its throat, and Nancy stretched out on the floor
beside the bed, white-haired, gape-mouthed, her limbs
curled in like a burned spider's, and babbling."

"Prettily woven, prettily told." The elf lord's mouth
was thin and grim. "No fault can fall on you with such
a tale to guard your back. Why practice it on me? Take
it to your black priest and let him make you clean of
the crime."

"You cold-eyed thing!" Despite the agony it shot
through her hip, the old woman stamped her foot in
rage, fists clenched tight. "Is there nothing between your
ears but sand? If you walked this world for twice ten
thousand years, you could not begin to imagine how it
pains my heart to see you now, as tall and fair and shin-
ing as the night we met, and me so eaten up by age.
And yet I summoned you. Trust in my words, my vain,
my beloved lord; I did not do so lightly, or merely to
bait you with lies. I want only one thing from you, and
then begone. I want my daughter back again."

He stood there gazing into her face for the time it

MORTAL THINGS

283

would take a water bubble to rise to the surface of a
pond and break. The ice that encased his eyes began to
thin, to melt away entirely until there was only the old
tenderness left. "Forgive me," he said. "Forgive me for
my words as I pray you will forgive me for this: I cannot
give you the boon you ask. Whatever befell the child
your handmaid stole away, I know nothing of it."

"Now you are the liar, my lord," Ruth replied evenly.
"You are because you must be. All the evidence shouts
it to your face. If you did not steal our babe from Nan-
cy's arms in the dark woodland, if you did not strike her
down to snatch the child away, then whose hand placed
that poor, strangled creature in my arms? If not you,
then it was one of your minions acting on your word. I
saw that small corpse well, too well. I was the one who
gave it decent burial, weak as I was. It was nothing
human. All brown and wizened, an ancient mannikin, an
infant mummy, it was no babe of my birthing."

"A changeling." The elf spoke with conviction. "Some
goblin's brat, from what you say. But still I swear to
you, it was as much a stranger to me as our child. I
know nothing of this." His eyes met hers full on. No lies
lived in them. "Nothing at all."

"Nothing . . ." The word seemed reluctant to leave
her mouth. She leaned heavily against the cross and her
legs weakened under her. The velvet cape made a soft,
hissing sound as she slid down to huddle in the snow.
'Then there is no hope. None. If even you have never
seen her . . . Oh, Nancy! Only you might be the one to
tell us both what became of that unlucky child, and you
never will. You never can." And she wept out her
heart's misery.

When she raised her face from her hands, he was
gone, her lover of so long ago, and there was the pale
hint of false dawn stealing through the trees.

"And what did I expect?" she muttered to herself,
slowly getting to her feet, climbing a stairway of pain.
"What should he care, when all's said, for a mortal slip
of his planting, for any mortal thing?"

She thought of old Nancy, more than half out of her
scanty wits most times, and how the stricken hag would
sing the old ballads of the Fair Folk to pass the hours.

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Esther Friesiter

She sang of how beautiful they were, and how carelessly
cruel. A pretty girl was no more to the lords of Faerie
than a summer's blossom, easily plucked, briefly ad-
mired, casually cast aside. Ruth sighed and gazed at her
hand where the speckled green stone ring still nestled
between crabbed fingers. She touched it once, lightly,
with a fingertip. It shriveled up brown, crackled into a
smear of dust, and blew away.

"This, too, then, he takes from me at last," she said,
and turned her footsteps back to the great manor house.

All the morning she kept to her bed, more in a series
of dozes and catnaps than in true sleep, after the manner
of the old. She got no good rest from it and awoke
haggard, out of sorts. Her servants knew the edge of her
tongue that day, and even her son—sole heir and al-
mighty lord of the great house and the grounds ever
since his father's passing, the man on whose charity she
now depended—had reason to cringe under the bite of
her words.

That night she did not rest. She walked long galleries
where moonlight danced away before her plodding feet,
her crooked shadow. She did not dare to sleep, she did
not want to dream. It was a dream that had planted in
her heart that impossible longing for her lost child, a
dream in which she lay upon her deathbed and saw a
fair vision bending over her. It was her own face, soft
with youth once more, yet different. There was a wild
slant to the eyes, a greater delicacy to the bones beneath
the skin. In that dream she knew that her daughter had
come back to give her peace before she shut her eyes
one last time against the beauty of the world.

"No, no," she muttered to herself, hands knotted in
the collar of her nightrobe. "I will not sleep again. Let
death take me waking, I will not sleep. I could not bear,
the pain were that vision to find me again. Oh, my baby!
God forgive me for your begetting! God grant me Hell
for wishing your death. I will accept His darkest judg-
ment on my soul if only He will in mercy grant me one
last sight of your sweet, living face." Thus she prayed,
prayers that any priest would dread to hear.

But she tired in body long before her spirit flagged.
In the night-steeped hall where her late husband's por-

MORTAL THINGS

285

trait still kept a proprietary eye over all his earthly hold-
ings, she slumped into a high-backed chair and fell
into slumber.

Ruth . . . Her name swam through the shadows of
dream to touch her ear with a breath that smelled of
honey. Ruth, / have returned. The pledge will stand re-
deemed. Ruth, awake to me.

She opened her eyes, or dreamed she did. In the high-
ceiled hall the elf lord stood, his limbs shimmering with
cioth-of-silver. He was not alone. A lady stood beside
him, a lady of his own immortal breed and kin, gor-
geously appareled. Her hair was a tumble of autumn
leaves and her eyes were hard, green spears of spring-
time grass surprised by frost. The elf lord held out one
hand to this miracle of frozen loveliness and she rested
her fingertips on his proffered palm as if she gave reluc-
tant charity to a leper.

"Is this—is this she?" Ruth's lips trembled. There was
nothing of her blood in this proud, cold being at all,
none she could see. "Is this my—our child?"

The pale, alluring face of the lady tightened with dis-
dain, and it was the elf lord who answered, "No."

"Then who—? Why have you brought—?"

"My bride," he said, turning his face away from them
both. "My wife. My queen."

"But never his love." The lady's voice broke forth so
suddenly that elf lord and mortal woman both jumped
in their skins at the sound. "That he reserved for you."
Her eyes traveled up and down the old woman's face
and form, piercing to the bone. Under that long, scornful
stare Ruth forgot to breathe. "You," the lady repeated,
and then she laughed her contempt aloud.

The harsh sound roused her lord to anger. He glared
at her, then with gentleness turned to Ruth and said,
"Here is our stealer of infants. Here is the one who kept
secret watch on us—on you—from the first, who fol-
lowed you even after you sent me away. Here is she
who spied on our every meeting, but could not see what
it was drew me to your arms."

"What was there to see?" the lady replied haughtily.
"A willing whore is a common sight."

"So it is, my lady, in your mirror," the elf lord coun-

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Esther Friesner

tered. "Your person for my kingdom, now there was a
fee! But your love?"

"I gave you pleasure and delight," the lady spat.
"Why did you require more? What do such as we care
for love? It is a mortal thing, a spangle to catch the light
and blind their eyes so that for a little while they are
too dazzled to see their waiting deaths."

"My lady—" Ruth hesitated. Never had she seen so
much hate pent up in so dainty a shell. She dreaded to
risk kindling the elf queen's rage—no mater that her
lover might protect her from it—and yet she felt com-
pelled to speak. She had told the elf lord truly when
she'd said she did not fear death. "My lady, were you
indeed the one who stole my daughter from poor Nan-
cy's arms?"

"Your daughter?" The lady seemed to grow taller as
she looked down her nose at the old woman. "She is
of his blood as well, and all that is his must by rights
be mine."

"Ah." The light of understanding came over Ruth's
face. "So that is why you speak as if you despise love,
yet you begrudge that your lord found love with me.
Nothing but pride of ownership, nothing but greed for
your rights of property, nothing more than—" She was
about to say Nothing more than how my husband held
me, but prudence stilled her tongue.

She got up from the high-backed chair and with all
care for her fragile bones she lowered herself to her
knees before the shining lady. Her lover gave a short
cry of startlement and tried to prevent her, but she
waved his intervention aside. She joined her hands in a
suppliant's pose and lifted her rheumy eyes to that clear,
green gaze so steeped in hate. "My lady, I ask your
pardon for my sins against your marriage bed. I would^
offer you my life if I thought it would appease you, but*
we both know that is no great offering now. So I ask
you—I implore you in the name of your bright beauty—
gave me back what you have taken from me. Only for
a little while, give it back, that treasure I don't deserve
to hold."

"Ruth, there is no need for this," the elf lord pro-
tested, trying to help her to her feet. She shrugged aside

MORTAL THINGS

287

his efforts and remained stubbornly on her knees while
he pleaded: "She has no choice. When I left you last
night, it was to solve this mystery, and by my powers I
have done it. I have found out her hiding place and
discovered her crime. She stands under my orders to
submit to your word. You have only to say what you
desire of her and she must obey."

The old woman shook her head in denial. "There is
every need. You have done wrong to take her choices
from her, my beloved. Even if we have not offended
against her heart, we have offended against her pride,
and she holds that pride dearer than any heart. It is not
just or right that I command her obedience when I
should beg her forgiveness."

This time when the elf queen laughed, there was a
vagrant note of warmth in the sound. "Well said,
woman. And as for the boon you would have of me,
well asked and willingly granted." She jerked away from
her lord's touch and clasped Ruth's gnarled and wrin-
kled paw in both her slim, white hands, urging her to
rise. "Come and have your child back again."

They left the sleeping house, those three, by paths that
never knew wall or door. Outside the snow still lay in
thick furrings over the earth, the winter wind still wor-
ried the bare tree limbs with iron teeth, but the old
woman felt neither wind nor snow nor cold. A shining
warmth encased her as she walked between those two
tall, proud figures. They left the manor house and its
gardens, skirted the forest, crossed fallow fields, and all
with as little effort as if their steps merely spanned the
width of Ruth's lonesome bedchamber. The tireless pace
of the etfinfolk was to be expected, but Ruth marveled
at how she too remained unwearied. His gift to her or
his queen's? Old Nancy's ballads sang of how elves made
bad enemies; Ruth could have added a verse to tell of
how they also made unsettling friends.

At length, their path ended at the side of a great
mound in the middle of a flat expanse of land. The elf
lord spoke a word and the hillside opened into a golden
light. A squat creature came scampering out, brown as
new-turned earth, with tiny red eyes like holly berries.
The goblin scuttled over the snow on three limbs, a well-

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Esther Frtesner

wrapped bundle in its other arm, and threw itself against
the elf queen's skirts like a too-eager hound.

The elf queen bent down to take up the little bundle
and held it out to Ruth, all smiles. Her look of gracious,
condescending charity flickered out when the old woman
backed away as if she had been offered a serpent in
swaddling clothes.

"No," Ruth moaned, wringing her hands. "Oh, gentle
heaven, no."

"What is this?" the elf queen demanded, a scowl
sharpening her beauty. "What is the matter with you,
woman? You asked for your child back. I have brought
her to you. Take her!" She tried to thrust the bundle
into Ruth's arms, but the old woman shrank from it and
covered her face, sobbing.

"My love, what ails you?" the elf lord gently asked,
slipping one arm around her heaving shoulders. "See,
my queen has kept her word: Our child is here! Why
won't you take her? Isn't this what you desired? Wasn't
it for this you called upon my pledge?" His finger traced
the dark smear above her knuckle where she had once
worn the speckled green stone ring.

"Time, time, time," the old woman groaned. "Nancy's
songs do say the truth, how time passes in your realm,
my lord. Our hours here in the mortal world fly, yours
drift. Our days are your moments, our centuries are your
days. Oh, can't you see? My babe who was stolen off to
Elfhame is a baby still, with all of life awaiting her and
I—I wait only for death."

"Is that all that troubles you?" The elf lord kissed her
cheek. "Then come, my dearest; let it be as it might
have been for us, if you had never run away. I offered
you the life of Elfhame then; I offer it anew. Come with
us and live your remaining days as centuries. What keeps
you here anymore? Your son is a grown man; he doesn't
need you. Come with us and care for one who does.
Come and raise our daughter."

"As what? Her mother? A fine mother, a cradle
crone! I am too old to take an infant's care. And when
she is old enough to know, what will she think of me?
My age and ugliness will frighten her. She is half mortal,
but why should she see so soon the end mortality brings?

MORTAL THINGS

289

Let her be innocent of that hard knowledge for as long
as may be."

"Is this how my generosity is received?" the elf queen
demanded peevishly. She turned on her lord. "Was it
for this that 1 allowed you to humble me, to drag me
before your mortal mistress? If she will not accept the
child, then let us give it to the goblins."

"My lady, a moment. Let me reason with her, please,
I beg of—"

The elf lord's words were ignored. His queen's anger
would not be pent. With a toss of her head she stalked
toward the golden gateway in the hillside and cried,
"Take her!" And she tossed the swaddled bundle into
the light.

The old woman heard a tiny wisp of wailing rise up
from the bundle as it left the elf queen's arms, she saw
a small, pink hand wave helplessly in the air, and sud-
denly she was running. Her mind screamed out that it
was hopeless, that age had fettered her limbs, that she
was slow, that a legion of the elf queen's goblin minions
would lay hands on that little life before she could cross
half the distance between herself and the hillside. But
her heart outshouted her reason. She ran, arms out-
stretched, eyes fixed on what the elf queen had thrown
away as heedlessly as if it were a withered bunch of
flowers. Somewhere in that headlong race she felt her
toe catch against the edge of a stone. She fell forward,
a cry of despair tearing her throat.

The grass broke her fall, the tender grass of an unend-
ing summer. Her head filled with the scent of a thousand
flowers, a dizzyingly sweet perfume, and warm breezes
stroked her skin. All of this was wondrous, all of this
meant nothing. All that mattered was the bundle that
now filled her arms, the laughing face of the baby that
looked up at her with eyes almost her own.

Very cautiously she crept to her feet, sheltering the
gurgling infant against her chest. She could not take her
eyes from the small face, and when the baby nuzzled at
her bosom she was only a little astonished to feel her
breasts ache with milk. She opened her nightrobe and
et the child suckle, velvety cheek pressed to skin no
longer wrinkled, breasts no longer slack. A curl of her

290

Esther FHesner

golden hair fell forward and the baby grasped it tightly
in a fist too small to hold anything but a heart.

She did not even hear the sound of the hillside sliding
shut behind her, though it was a sound loud enough to
rouse the master of the manor house and bring him run-
ning into his gardens. He was standing by the stone
cross, staring off into the frozen darkness, when the ser-
vants came rushing out to tell him that his mother was
gone.

He looked down at the crumpled velvet cape at the
foot of the cross. His own large tracks had all but erased
the smaller set of prints that had been there before, yet
still he could tell that hers had been the only feet to
come this way since snowfall. They came this far; they
did not go back. He knew this was impossible—she had
gone into this garden the other night and assuredly she
had come home again.

Yes, impossible. He was a man of business, of com-
mon sense, of reason. He did not believe in wasting time
over impossibilities. He knelt to pick up the discarded
cape, his gift of duty if not of love. Violets fell from the
velvet folds, starred the snow, and the red tears of
anemones.

And in a poor cottage by a ruined convent's garden,
an old woman who for years had known nothing of rea-
son heard a knocking at her door. The sound roused her
from fitful sleep. She cast aside the ragged bedclothes
and made her way across a floor dusty from neglected
sweepings, cluttered and unclean with all the small detri-
tus that her feeble mind overlooked to clear away.

She opened the door to a bright-eyed girl with a baby
at her breast. The vision leaned across the doorsill to
press a kiss on the old woman's cheek and cry, "Oh,
Nancy!" with a wanderer's joy at finding her way home
once more.

"Who—who are you?" For once the sheltering clouds
of madness parted, leaving Nancy's eyes naked to pure
dread. She cupped the wrinkled cheek the girl had kissed
as if it were a wound. "What do you want from me?"

The girl touched the old woman's tangled hair and
drew out the small, black sliver of flint that only her
eyes could see nested there and that no mortal comb

MORTAL THINGS

291

could ever dislodge. The elf-bolt burned itself white in
her palm; she blew the ashes away with the breath of
her laughter. The old woman stared, reason coming back
into her eyes, and recognition with it:

"R—Ruth?" She looked down at her own aged hand,
then at the girl's smooth skin, and wondered whether
she were not still mad. Other questions bubbled to her
lips, but each and every one blew away before she could
utter it. She turned from the cottage doorway to see her
home transformed, all the clutter changed to cleanliness
and comfort by a scouring spring breeze that blew with
magic's lingering breath from the golden girl's mere
presence.

She looked back at her callers, still lingering beyond
the doorsill, and her restored mind cast aside all doubts
and questions of possibility. She knew only what she saw
before her now.

She planted her hands on her hips and with a sigh of
feigned impatience said: "Well, if you're bound to wait
on my invitation, you might as well come in."

With a burst of joyous laughter, Ruth and her child
crossed the threshold of their only true home. Faithful
Nancy took the infant from her mother's arms "Of
course you didn't think to bring a cradle," she chided
And as the door closed after them, she began to sing
the infant one of the old songs, a ballad of the Fair
Folk—beautiful and cold, unchanged by age or time ar-
mored in magic, and all their power scattered like'the
petals of a flower by so small a mortal thing as love

MY LORD TEASER

by Richard Parks

Richard Parks lives in Mississippi, works with computers,
and writes. He firmly believes that his stories, which have
appeared in Robert Bloch's Psychos, 100 Wicked Little
Witch Stories, and Wizard Fantastic, are much more inter-
esting than he is. Humor him.

Every man deals with pain in his own way. Some
groan, some swear, some opt for stoic silence even
when a little tactical complaint might bring relief. John
of Devonleigh, called "Running Jack" by friend and foe
alike, tended to philosophize. After a night in a bed that
had nothing to do with sleep, and carrying a head that
felt two stone too heavy—not to mention the size of a
ripe melon—he had ample reason.

The only trouble with ''the night before" is the morn-
ing after.

It was a minor paradox as such went, but this was as
much mystery as Jack could handle just then. He came
to a clear running stream just inside a grove near the
forest of Dunby and there he didn't so much dismount
as slide off his mount like a sack of loose grain. Reynard,
the big dun gelding, drank gratefully from the stream
without dwelling too much on the imponderables. Jack
splashed his face with the cool sweet water and did lit-
tle else.

Jack found a quiet pool where a boulder diverted the
faster water to the side, and there he studied his reflec-
tion. It had been a while since Jack had taken notice of
himself; time being the slippery thief it was, he was a
little relieved to note that he was still a relatively young
man. The black of his hair was untouched by gray as
yet, and his dark eyes were still clear and bright. There

292

MY LORD TEASER

293

were fine lines near his eyes and mouth that spoke of
diminishing time, but not loudly. Not yet.

Still time to make a life for myself.

The question was: Did it really matter now? Jack con-
sidered this, and came to the answer he always reached,
because it was the only one there was.

•'Reynard, they're going to catch me sooner or later."

Reynard cropped grass near the bank. If the horse
thought of it at all—unlikely—he wouldn't have needed
to ask who "they" were. They were legion: the brother
of Jack's former knight and Reynard's former master,
now deceased, too many inn and tavern keepers to
count, the fathers and brothers of a dozen or more vil-
lage girls, and, for purposes varying from matrimony to
mayhem, the village girls.

Jack never meant to complicate his life so much; in-
deed, he was working hard to avoid complications before
the disaster at Charcross. Now he was forced to live life
moment by moment, because the moment was all he
could count on. Jack didn't like to think about it. He
decided to soak his aching head instead; it seemed a
more profitable way to spend the time. When he finally
emerged from the water again he heard a horse whinny.

"Reynard . . . ?"

Not Reynard. Too far away. Jack crept to the edge of
the trees. A man rode down the road Jack had come, a
large man wearing armor, followed by two mounted
squires and a small pack train. He rode with his helm
hanging from his saddle, but Jack didn't need to see the
man's face to know who he was.

As far as Jack was concerned, he was Death.

"Sir Kevin Grosvenor," whispered Jack to Reynard.
"Now it ends."

He looked around. The grove was small, and the path
led right through it; there was no place to hide. There
was a chance he could reach the forest proper before
Sir Kevin, but there was no point. He was traveling
lighter than his pursuers but Reynard was too spent from
the previous evening's flight to go far.

Jack considered; Sir Kevin hadn't spotted him yet, but
that wouldn't matter in a few moments. He might man-
age to surprise them, but it was three to one and Jack

294

Richard Parks

knew he was no match for the burly knight even if they
had been equally armored.

"I suppose," he said, "it's time to show the honor that
Sir Kevin claims I do not possess. Do you think the
contradiction will give him the slightest pause, Rey-
nard?" The big dun snorted and Jack was forced to
agree. "I didn't think so."

Jack loosened his sword in its scabbard and started
to mount.

"You chose death, then."

The woman sat on a stone by the stream. She hadn't
been there a moment before, Jack was sure of it. It took
him a moment before he was sure of something else—
he knew her. The long dark hair and dimpled smile was
very familiar from the tiring—but blissful—prior
evening.

"Edyth? How did you get here?"

"Aren't you pleased to see me, Jack?" she asked.

Actually he was indeed pleased, though Jack had
never expected to see her again. When they had met the
previous evening in the Houndsfoot Tavern, it was
Edyth who had sought him out. Likewise, there was
nothing in her manner or conversation in the time they'd
spent together that led him to think that she expected
more from him than his company for that little time.
She had been quite unexpected that way, as in others.
Jack, in turn, surprised himself to think that he might
have been quite content to spend a good portion of his
life—perhaps all of it—delving her mysteries, if that had
been at all possible.

Jack glanced back at the road; Sir Kevin was coming
uncomfortably close. "Certainly, but your timing could
be better."

She laughed then. It was probably not quite loud
enough for Sir Kevin to hear over the clink and flap of
his accoutrements, but almost. "I think my timing is per-
fect as it is. You are about to die," she said.

Jack blinked. "So it seems, though I never thought
you would savor the idea. I thought you were somewhat
fond of me."

"I am quite fond of you, and there's my meaning,"

MY LORD TEASER

295

she said. "I offer you this choice: Face that angry man
out there, and die. Or come with me, and live."

"Come where?"

"With me," she repeated. "It's not necessary that you
understand, only that you choose. Know that I do have
the power to save your life, but I wouldn't dawdle, if I
were you."

Jack glanced back at the road. "That's no choice at
all. Lead on."

There was a white palfrey, fully caparisoned, standing
beside the woman. Jack was sure it hadn't been there a
moment before, either, but in a moment Edyth was
mounted and reining her horse toward the far end of
the grove. Jack climbed back on Reynard and trotted
after her.

"We can't reach the forest before Sir Kevin sees us;
I'd already considered that," Jack said as he caught up.

"He's not as close as you think," she said.

Jack glanced back, and got an even bigger surprise.

By Our Lady . . .

There was nothing behind them but trees, as far and
as wide as Jack could see: no sign of the road, no sign
of Sir Kevin, though both, as Jack was certain, were only
a few yards away a moment before. As far as Jack could
tell, they were out of the grove and into the main forest
now, though in truth the trees seemed both thicker and
larger than he'd expected.

"What just happened, Edyth?"

The woman just smiled at him, and Jack realized dully
that she had changed, too. The hair and the smile had
not changed, but her face was more angular than he
remembered, her frame, slighter. There was also some-
thing different about the eyes, something . . . older.

"Edyth, who are you?"

She smiled at him. "You may call me Lady Devoted.
I am the humble servant of my mistress, the Queen of
the Sidhe."

Jack reined in. "Not another step," he said, "until I
know what this is about."

The woman's horse stopped, too, though she gave no
command that Jack could see. The palfrey turned slowly,
elegantly, like a dancer. When the woman he had known

296

Richard Parks

as Edyth faced him again she looked even more differ-
ent. He could still see Edyth there, in this stranger's
face, but it was no village rnaid who sat before him.
She wore a gown of fine green brocade; gold spurs were
strapped to the heels of her soft leather boots. Edyth
had been pretty; this woman was not containable in such
a pitiful word, or indeed any other Jack knew.

"I am Lady Devoted, as I told you. I just saved
your life."

Jack nodded. "Yes. Why?"

She studied him in a way that was a little discon-
certing. "Most men would assume it had something to
do with our idyll of last night, and my affection for you.
Why are you not making that assumption?"

"I am, in that I do believe it has something to do with
the previous evening. But what? There's the question.
You're not what you seemed, Lady, and thus it follows
that our time together was not what it seemed, and so
I must ask: Why did you seek me out?"

She smiled approval. "You're a clever man, Jack, and
not as blinded by pride as some. That will help. 1 sought
you out to test you, to make certain you were the man
I thought you. Nor was I disappointed. I think you will
do nicely."

"For what?"

"For the Queen of the Sidhe's lover."

Running Jack was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, Sir
Grosvenor was the lesser of the two threats confronting
him now. They had been riding for a while, and though
Sir Kevin was still out of sight, the edge of the forest,
dimly visible ahead, had not gotten any closer.

"How much farther, Lady?"

"A little or a lot. It varies."

That wasn't very helpful. Jack pictured himself riding
for an eternity through this dark forest which, Jack was
pretty certain, was not Dunby Wood. The company was
pleasant enough, but the situation did seem uncomfort-
ably short of options.

"Lady, if I ask a question, will you tell me the truth?"

"Anything you ask in my lady's name, I will answer
so," she replied. "But, since you don't really know Her

MY LORD TEASER

297

Majesty's given name and I've no inclination to reveal
it, that doesn't help you much."

"No," said Jack.

She smiled then. "However, you are free to ask as
man to woman—for such I am, whatever else I may be—
and you may believe what you will. Isn't that how you
mortals normally conduct business?"

Jack had to admit it was. "Very well, then: You said
you were testing me last night. What was the test? That
I could lie with a woman?"

She laughed then. "By the Glamour, no. The meanest
lout in that tavern could have managed that, even the
few whose tastes don't run to women. I wasn't looking
for ability," she said, then added, "or skill, come to that.
Though you were . . . passable."

"You are too kind," Jack said, a little wounded.

She shook her head, and she wasn't smiling. "No,
Jack. I am not kind. If you don't believe anything else
I tell you, believe that. I chose you for our advantage,
not yours. Leaving you to that large angry man back
there . . ." she glanced back down the1 path, "might have
been kinder. A sword in the head or heart isn't the worst
thing that can happen to a person. What you face now
is a sort of war, Jack, and we of the Sidhe have been at
it a very long time. You're in more danger than you can
possibly know."

"You said I was to be the queen's lover!"

She nodded. "It's the same thing."

It was as if Lady Devoted had been waiting for some-
thing, Jack thought, and he'd just given it to her. The
forest around them grew even thicker for a moment, as
if they were riding in night. Then there was a definite
lightening of the path ahead. Another few minutes'
riding and they crossed the border.

It was the most beautiful country Jack had ever seen.

He looked around with a rising sense of futility, trying
to imagine a time, if any, when he would look back on
the moment he was now in. What would he tell himself?
What images, sounds or emotions filtered through imper-
fect memory could recapture what he saw, what he

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heard, what he felt right now? Could there actually be
a truth so strong or a lie so golden to be a match for it?

"I couldn't even imagine a place like this."

"What do you see?" Lady Devoted asked.

"What . . . ?" The question sounded ludicrous, but
one look at his companion told him she was deadly seri-
ous. There was almost—no other word quite fit—a hun-
ger in her expression as she waited for his answer.

"I see a stream with water clear as glass. I see a palace
with turrets shining like finest marble, whiter than snow
and taller than any mountain I have ever seen. I see folk
of such quality that the meanest among them puts the
finest mortal king on his throne to shame. I see such
that, if I were to see much more, I would burst into
flame like the Greek maiden who saw Zeus in his Glory
and could not contain it."

She nodded, and her eyes closed as if she savored each
word like some rare and delicate pastry. "Thank you."

"I don't understand," he said. "What do you see?"

"The same," she admitted. "And ever the same, for
millennia past counting. Look at the finest emerald in
creation long enough and sooner or later a dung heap
will become the most fascinating change of pace." She
sighed. "But to see, for a moment, with new eyes . . .
that was a gift, and so I thanked you. Simple courtesy,
and manners. Understand that proper behavior is life
and death here."

"I would consider the debt paid if you would teach
me," he said.

"As much as can be done for you, I will. Pray it's
enough."

There was so much that was new and strange to Jack,
but a few things seemed to stand out. For instance, all
the grand palaces and castles he saw upon crossing the
border were still there, but no one seemed to be using
them. No matter where he and Lady Devoted rode, none
of the fine buildings ever seemed to get any closer. So
when Lady Devoted brought him a change of clothing,
he bathed in a cold-water stream, shaved using a bronze
mirror hung on a tree. A gilt bucket appeared with oats
beside the stream for Reynard, who didn't seem inclined

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299

to question farther than his stomach. Jack was different.
When Lady Devoted reappeared, Jack finally had to re-
mark upon it.

"You are not deceived; the buildings are but aspects
of the Glamour."

"You mean they're not real?"

"They're real enough, but they're not what you think
they are. They suit their purpose by doing what they
were envisioned to do."

"And what is that?"

"To attest to the glory of my mistress and her king-
dom. Aren't they fine?"

"Yes, but what good are they if no one can use
them?"

She looked at him as if he were a dull-witted child.
"What good is a human palace? It's a testament to the
wealth and power of the crown, but as a place to live?
Most are somewhat lacking. These are different. They
never age or need repair; they do not gather dust and
they do not wall us off from the natural world. Which,
as you said yourself, is a splendid place indeed."

"Yes, but what about rain? Or winter chill?"

Lady Devoted smiled then. "Sometimes I think you
forget where you are. We are the Changeless, Jack. The
Not Born of Eve. What are such things to us? What is
a palace but something to admire, as you would a moun-
tain or a fine horse? All the same."

Jack shrugged. "My expectations rule me, My Lady,
and they are poor masters at best. So. What happens
now?"

"Now we go to see my mistress. What 'happens' re-
mains to be seen."

"Lady Devoted, you did not tell me she had a
husband!"

Jack kept his voice down to a harsh whisper, but
barely. Lady Devoted seemed more amused than cha-
grined. "I didn't tell you that earth should be under you
and sky above, either. Some things you take for
granted."

They stood at the edge of a clearing: Jack in his bor-
rowed finery, Lady Devoted in a new gown that was as

T

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301

delicate as a garment of moonbeams and cobwebs, and
about as substantial. It had been difficult to take his eyes
off her when she directed him to look at the approaching
company. Now it wasn't difficult at all. Jack's mouth had
dropped open at the sight.

The lords and ladies of the Sidhe walked hand in
hand, their entrance a pavanne to hidden music. At the
head of the column walked a lady of indescribable
beauty, a creature not so much perfect of form as some-
thing beyond the notion of form, and the ethereal fash-
ions of beauty. She was beauty, and whatever came
closest to her in even the palest imitation would be
beauty, too. Her hair was whiter than snow, her eyes the
faint blue of glaciers. She was at once ancient as earth
and new as springtime. Jack lost his heart to her at once.
He really had no choice.

It was several long moments before Jack was able to
even notice the lord at her side, and then for a moment
he had all of Jack's faltering attention. In some ways the
lord of the Sidhe reminded Jack of Sir Kevin. Besides
the comparisons of size and strength, there was the same
sense of implacability about him. He looked otherwise
human except for two fine horns springing from his brow
like those of a yearling buck. He wore a fine tunic of
silvered thread; his hose was sky blue. He carried a fine
longsword in his right hand as he held his lady's with
his left hand. The blade was hidden in its scabbard and
wrapped in a fine jeweled belt, but Jack had no doubt
there was nothing of delicacy and show in the blade.
The fairie lord, for his part, looked as if he knew how
to use it, had used it, and would again at the slightest
provocation.

"Who is that?" Jack had asked.

"My Lady's consort, of course. The king of this
realm."

After she seemed certain that Jack's outburst was
over, she took him by the hand and led him out into the
open, before the dancers and the magnificent couple who
led them.

"Keep silent unless directly addressed, and try to fol-
low as I direct."

Jack felt every single glance as they company turned

their eyes on him. No one spoke, but the hidden music
ended, and so did the dance. All stood watching them
approach. Every instinct in Jack's soul told him to break
Lady Devoted's grip if he could and flee to whatever
safe haven he could find. His wits told him differently:
that Lady Devoted's delicate grip was more than he
thought, and there were no safe places for him there.
He remembered Lady Devoted's words, kept silent, and
tried to follow her lead.

The Queen of the Sidhe was the first to speak, in a
voice that was the source of all music as far as Jack
could tell.

"You have returned to us, Lady Devoted, and you
bring company! Most welcome. Who is our guest?"

Lady Devoted bowed low, and Jack copied her. "Your
Majesties, may I present Lord Teaser."

Lord . . . ?

In his surprise Jack almost spoke then, but managed
to prevent it. The gaze from the massed company
seemed even more intense now, if such a thing was possi-
ble, and the last thing he wanted was to draw more
attention than he could help. If anything, he wanted to
make himself very small and hide someplace inconspicu-
ous, such as behind the nearest rock. But then, he rea-
soned, he would not be able to hear that voice again,
nor see that wonderful face.

The queen extended one perfect gloved hand. Jack
had presence of mind enough to glance at his companion
before he accepted it, but brushing the delicate lace with
his lips made him a bit light-headed. He caught a scent
of something undefinable, but fascinating. When the
queen withdrew her hand, it was all Jack could do to let
it go. Indeed, he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to
release her hand, had not the King of Fairie caught his
eye. The Sidhe lord nodded once, and Jack found him-
self bowing again. When he straightened up, the king's
eyes were still on him,

"You must join us at the feast this evening," said the
queen. It was a polite enough request, but Jack realized
he would have fought armies to be anywhere she wanted
him to be, do anything she wanted him to do. In a mo-
ment the music began again and, two by two, the dancers

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passed by. As the royal couple pavanned away from him,
Jack heard the king speak to his Lady.

"And thus it begins?"

At least that's what it sounded like; the queen made
no answer that he could hear. One thing Jack did know
for certain—the king's horns were definitely larger now
than they were just a few moments before.

"You're not eating," Lady Devoted said.

The feast was laid out on three tables, the head table
and two others turned at right angles to it. Jack and
Lady Devoted sat opposite each other at the head of
the rightmost table, close but not too close to the royal
couple seated at the center of the head table.

Lady Devoted had risen and gone to speak to her
mistress on several occasions as if summoned, though
Jack heard nothing. After the last time she acted as if
something had been settled, and deigned to enjoy the
feast herself. There was a great deal to enjoy: venison,
turbot, compotes of great delicacy and the most delicious
scents. Jack's mouth was practically watering, but all he
allowed himself was a little wine. A very little, well
mixed with water. Jack wanted his wits about him.

"I dare not," he said.

"That old story about eating the food of fairyland and
being trapped forever?" She smiled. "Would that really
be such a terrible thing?"

"Being trapped anywhere is a terrible thing," he said.
"And though your perspective is far vaster than mine, I
can see the same thought in you."

Lady Devoted denied nothing, admitted nothing. She
merely looked thoughtful. "Why does Sir Kevin seek
your death? What did you do to him?"

Jack allowed himself another sip of wine. "I lived."

"That's all?"

"Even simple things have roots past counting. Specifi-
cally, I lived and his brother died. At Charcross."

"Charcross . . ." Lady Devoted frowned briefly. "I
remember hearing something of that. A border skirmish
between two barons, was it not? Hardly more than a
trifle."

"Normally, yes. One lord claims a serfs croft is on his

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303

fief, another disputes. Sometimes they fight, more often
it's a brave show and bluster, a little gold changes hands
and all is agreed. Unfortunately, there was already bad
blood between the Grosvenors and Percys going back
some years. They were just looking for an excuse."

"What happened?"

"They fought," Jack said simply. "I was squire to Sir
Francois, Kevin's brother. During the melee his banner
was torn. Another bloody trifle, but he sent me back to
Grosvenor Castle to get a new one. I think the fool still
thought it was some grand show. He was wrong. By the
time 1 returned it was over; Sir Frangois was dead on
the field. 1 don't think old Percy himself meant it to go
as far as that."

"Fools, to squander such wealth," was all Lady De-
voted said.

Jack shrugged. "Wealth was squandered, and that's
the truth. The Percy family paid a heavy fine to Sir
Kevin and the king took a larger one. I wasn't so lucky.
Sir Kevin couldn't believe his brother had been so fool-
ish. Easier to believe I had betrayed Sir Francois and
fled."

"That wasn't what I meant, Jack. I meant wealth.
What does one value more than the thing one does not
possess? There's not a fay at this table who wouldn't
pay more gold than the world has seen for a moment
with such depth of feeling, and humans waste it on noth-
ing." She shook her head in disgust.

Jack didn't understand at first, then he looked around
him. He remembered what Lady Devoted had told him
about seeing this kingdom with new eyes, and he tried
now to see the company around him with a different
perspective. He tried to see the fays as Lady Devoted
must, one who had beheld the same tableau for ages
past counting. For several long moments he could not
get past the jeweled flash, the colors, the Glamour. Then
he noticed something he had not noticed before.

What's wrong with their eyes?

The fays were laughing, but not with their eyes. They
were flirting, but the broad smiles and coy expressions
were only on their faces. What spoke of joy and life at
their feasting and merriment spoke only on the surface.

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Jack tried to understand what was in their eyes, instead
of all the things that should have been there. All he
could sort out of it was boredom, weariness, a kind of
hopeless sameness that did not change whatever fair face
he looked at.

"Is everyone here really so weary of existence?"

"It's not as simple as that, but I get your meaning.
And the answer is 'no.' For instance, at the head table
just now."

Jack looked where Lady Devoted was looking. The
queen and her king were in a discussion that was quite
animated, even—if Jack could believe such a thing were
possible now—heated. There was a definite reddish cast
to the king's features, and the queen's fine mouth was
set in a hard firm line. For a moment the king looked
directly at Jack, and their eyes met briefly. Then the
king was smiling at something a courtier had said, the
queen had risen from her place, and Jack was trying to
remember how to breathe. He had seen something in
the king's eyes and no mistake, and it certainly wasn't
boredom. Jack shivered.

"Prepare yourself," Lady Devoted said.

"For what?"

"For the first skirmish. This is a war, remember?"

Jack didn't know what to say, nor did he really get a
chance. He sensed rather than saw someone behind him,
and he rose from his chair to find the Queen of Fairie
standing behind him, smiling radiantly as the hidden
music began again.

"My Lord Teaser, will you consent to dance with
me?"

The dance was no stately pavanne this time; it was
more like a braisle but not quite as energetic. There was
time to talk. The Queen of Fairie seemed perfect in
every way, and her conversation was no exception. Jack
couldn't remember the last time his wit had been so
clearly matched, except perhaps with Lady Devoted. She
asked him riddles, and he felt fortunate to get one or
two of the lot. She asked him to speak of himself, which
was never very hard.

Soon others joined them in the moonlit glade that was

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305

their feast hall and ballroom. The dance could have
lasted for minutes, hours, or days; Jack didn't know or
care. Almost the only thing that mattered was that the
queen did not find him foolish, or clumsy, or slow-witted,
or any of the things Jack felt he most certainly was in her
presence. The "almost" came to mind whenever Jack
happened to notice the king, standing with a group of
his pale knights, looking at him. The king's hand had
crept closer and closer to the pommel of his dagger until
it rested there, and Jack was pretty sure he never took
his eyes off him the entire time he danced with the
man's Lady.

Finally it was Lady Devoted who interrupted. She ap-
peared at the queen's side and made a graceful curtsey.
"Your Majesty, the hour grows long. Perhaps our guest
is fatigued."

Jack almost protested, despite the Fairie King's dark-
ening mood, but a glance from Lady Devoted stopped
him. He merely bowed low and took the queen's hand
as she offered it, and again brushed the glove with his
lips before Lady Devoted and several other attendants
escorted the queen away.

Just before she left, Lady Devoted whispered in his
ear in parting. "You will be afraid soon, Jack. Try not
to show it."

She was gone before Jack had a chance to ask what
she meant. Another moment and he didn't have to. The
King of Fairie was at his elbow, smiling a smile like
burning ice. "My knights and I are going on a hunt. Will
you attend? I think you'll enjoy the sport, Lord Teaser."

Jack barely managed to keep his teeth from chat-
tering. "If you insist, Your Majesty."

The chasm of his smile grew even wider. "Oh, I cer-
tainly do."

Jack had heard enough stories about the Wild Hunt
to wonder if he himself—or his soul—might be the
quarry, but the hunt was nothing so straightforward.
They hunted no creature that Jack had ever seen, or
imagined. It could have been a unicorn, or a pegasus, or
something more snakelike than cloven-footed. Indeed, it
seemed to be all those things, at one time or another.

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The fays rode long-legged creatures with red eyes that
might, at first glance, pass for horses. They carried
barbed spears and blew curling horns that made the
country echo with their blasts. Reynard gave a good
enough account of himself as he carried his master over
thickets and through thick woodland, now in sight of the
quarry or other hunters, now in a forest so dark and still
that Jack and his mount could well have been the only
living creatures for leagues.

In time Jack noticed that, one by one, the other hunt-
ers turned back. Soon it was only Jack and the king.
Jack wanted to turn back himself, but a small quiet voice
inside told him that this was a very bad idea.

Jack caught up with the king at the crest of a wooded
hill. He arrived just in time to see the rump of their
prey—if indeed it was a rump—disappear into a narrow
valley before them. He started after it, but the king did
not. Jack drew rein beside the fairie lord.
"What manner of creature did we hunt, My Lord?"
"The same thing we always hunt, and have for a very
long time," said the king. "Which is to say: I don't

know."
Jack blinked. "Surely you could have caught up to it

before now, whatever it is."

The king smiled grimly. "Then what would we hunt?"
The smile went away. "I know why you are here, My

Lord Teaser."

Jack studied the far rise as if it were the most interest-
ing piece of earth he had ever seen. "Then you are most
certainly wiser than I," Jack said.

"Look at me, Mortal."

Jack did as he was told, and immediately wondered if
he had ever truly seen the fay king before that moment.
The face was much the same as Jack remembered,
though the horns had now sprouted into what was be-
coming an impressive set of antlers. No yearling now,
but an almost-grown stag. Jack could almost hear the
trumpeting of the fall rut as the king let out one gusty
breath on the chill air, and watched it drift away like

smoke.

"I am the king of no common domain, My Lord
Teaser, I command folk the least of whom could make

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307

any mortal power quake in its boots. What I rule, I rule.
What 1 claim as mine, is mine. Lady Devoted brought
you as a guest, and such you are, but there is more to
it as I think you know. Do not presume that guest pro-
tection means safe passage in all things. That would be
a mistake."

Jack looked at the king's eyes. Time still nestled there,
heavy as it did for all the fays, but there was something
else, something that was not in the least bit weary. And
it was getting stronger by the moment.

"I would not presume," Jack said, bowing slightly.

"You do," the king said, "and you will. It is always
thus."

Then, as if he had been no more than the mist of
breath he left behind, the Fairie King was gone.

Jack could not sleep.

He was weary beyond telling, but that seemed to work
against him. Worse, when steep did briefly touch him,
his dreams were full of the face and image of the Fairie
Queen; it was at once a sweet image and a nightmare,
a font of reverence, desire, and fear. Sleep and the bur-
den of her, imagined, was like a weight he could not
hold for long. He came to himself again in his green
bower, full awake.

At least, he thought he was awake.

So why did he still hear her laughter? Jack rose from
his shadowed bed, dressed quickly. He slipped through
the thicket; after years of running it was almost second
nature. He emerged from the trees into the open
meadow that had been their feast and revel hall, now a
darkened expanse vaulted over with stars.

Jack wandered around. The tables were gone now; in
the darkness Jack couldn't even find definite sign that
they had ever been there.

Is this the dream now, or was the dream before?

For all Jack could tell, he had fallen asleep in the
forest by the stream, and all that had happened since—
the narrow escape from Sir Kevin, the transformation of
Edyth, the visit to the Fairie realm—was just the imagin-
ings of a guilty brain.

Jack knew better. He knew that someone was waiting

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for him, someone very close. Nor was he wrong. She
stepped out of the trees across the meadow from where
he himself had emerged, and stood there, just outside
the dark wood. The Fairie Queen, veiled in gossamer
and crowned in starlight. She smiled at him, and his
knees shook. She held out her hand to him, and it was
not an invitation.

"Come."

Jack started toward her. He really didn't have any
choice. He was just a little past midway when he heard
a new voice.

"So. It happens."

The speaker sounded like Death itself given mouth
and tongue to speak. Even so, it took every ounce of
will that Jack possessed to turn his head far enough to
see who spoke.

The Fairie King stood at the far side of the meadow.
Jack almost didn't recognize him; he had a full set of
antlers like a rutting stag, and, if anything, his ears had
grown larger and more pointed. His eyes were as red
as an animal's reflected in torchlight, but there was no
torchlight. The king held two great white hounds at
leash, and they strained toward Jack, snarling.

Jack turned back, saw the Fairie Queen disappear into
the woods. Jack felt his life in the balance, but when he
ran it was toward the Fairie Queen, and not away from
anything. He sensed rather than saw when the king re-
leased the hounds. Not that it mattered; he couldn't run
any faster than he already was.

He got a glimpse of a figure in white, just ahead, and
ran toward it. It was the Fairie Queen, waiting for him.

"Your Majesty, the hounds—"

"I know. Seek the Fairie Queen, Jack. It's your only
chance."

He stared at her. "But you . . . ?"

She wasn't the Fairie Queen. Another moment and
she had changed enough that he could see who she was,
though by then he had already figured it out.

"Lady Devoted, you have just deceived and betrayed
me. Why should I trust you?"

"Because you're not the only one at risk here."

In a moment she changed again, and it was no woman

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309

at all, but a gray doe standing before him, looking at
him with familiar eyes. She raised one dainty hoof, indi-
cated the way he should run. "I'll distract the hounds;
the rest is up to you. Go!"

Jack heard the baying hounds, closer now. "What shall
I tell her?"

"Nothing, She'll either save you, or she won't."

Jack heard a thrashing in the undergrowth and he
turned and fled the way Lady Devoted had said. For a
moment the hounds were so close he was certain he felt
their hot breath at his back, then the sounds faded, their
baying grew fainter as the fairie hounds followed new
prey. Jack kept running.

Something else pursued Jack then. Something that ran
like a human and yet was not much like a human at all.
This time he did feel hot breath behind him, and a harsh,
sensuous whisper at his ear.

"What shall we hunt now, Lord Teaser?"

Jack saved his breath for running. Now the Fairie
King was more stag than man, now something like a
will-o-wisp, now something very much like the beast they
had hunted together eariier that evening. Always chang-
ing, but at heart the same, and all focused on him. Jack's
foot caught on a log and he almost fell, but managed to
catch himself on a sapling just long enough get his feet
under him again.

Pointed tines raked his left shoulder and Jack almost
fell from the blow. He staggered on. The second blow
caught him in the thigh, and he stumbled.

"Now it ends."

Jack's motion carried him through one last thicket,
into an open space diffused with white light. He
sprawled headlong before a pair of dainty feet. He
looked up, gasping, into the radiant face of the Fairie
Queen.

"My Lord Teaser, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

She spoke the words, but she wasn't looking at him
at all. The Fairie King stood just inside the bower, his
chest heaving, his eyes glowing bright.

"He's mine," the king said. "You were together. I saw
it. If you love him, he must die!"

The Fairie Queen did look at Jack now. She smiled

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at him, but only for a moment. All her attention from
then on was for the king alone. "I do not, My Lord."

Jack heard the words, and he heard the truth in them.
He wanted to die. He thought, perhaps, if he stood up
just then the Fairie King would grant his wish. He
started to rise, when he felt a hand on his shoulder,
restraining him.

"Follow me, if you want to live," Lady Devoted whis-
pered. Jack didn't see where she had come from; he was
pretty certain she had not been present a moment
before.

"I don't want to live," Jack said. "She doesn't love
me."

"She never did, and never would. Look."

Jack did look. He saw the king meet his queen half-
way and, if anything was lacking in their embrace, it was
not passion.

"Come."

Jack still wanted to die, but it was clear that the Fairie
King had things on his mind besides murder now. Jack
allowed himself to be hustled away, half running, half
crawling, by Lady Devoted. Jack was pretty sure that
neither the king nor the queen even bothered to notice.

Lady Devoted led Jack to where Reynard was settled
for the night. The gelding took his rousting stoically
enough. Lady Devoted stood by as Jack saddled and
bridled him. He finally noticed the bandage on Lady
Devoted's arm.

"You're hurt."

"I said you weren't the only one at risk. War, remem-
ber? No matter. We heal quickly. Far faster than you
will, I fancy." She sighed. "We did use you ill, didn't
we, Jack?"

" 'My Lord Teaser.' I should have guessed."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. The word has many
meanings."

"One of which is to refer to the farm stallion that,
though he is not allowed to mate, is the one who raises
the passion of the mares."

"Or in this case, both stallion and mare." Lady De-
voted shrugged. "A little novelty, a little jealousy ... a

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311

little reminder, if you will, and the two Powers of our
realm remain committed and in balance. When mar-
riages last for millennia, and every day has the curse of
immortal sameness, sometimes even love needs help.
And they do love each other, Jack. Despite the occa-
sional indiscretion."

"But I tove her, too," Jack said softly. He stopped to
loosen the saddle girth, which, in his anger, he had tight-
ened a little too much. Reynard whinnied his gratitude.
Jack sighed. "Well, it wasn't a very kind thing you did,
but you did warn me. I'll take my leave now, if there's
no objection."

"Sir Kevin is out there," Lady Devoted pointed out.

Jack almost smiled. "There was a time when that
would have terrified me."

"So you still want to die?"

Jack thought about it for a moment, then sighed. "No.
But with the Fairie King within and Sir Kevin without,
how can I live?"

"Let me ride with you a bit. Perhaps I can think of
an answer."

When they reached the border, the King and Queen
of Fairie were waiting for them.

"One last betrayal, Lady Devoted?" Jack asked.

"As I am not in your service, I can hardly betray you,"
she said primly. "But, like so much here, this is not what
it seems. Dismount."

Jack, seeing no other option, did as he was told. Lady
Devoted walked beside him as they approached the
royal couple. The king's expression would have done a
statue proud, but the queen smiled at him. Jack thought
of being out of sight of that smile for as long as he lived
and remembered that he didn't want to live very long
at all.

The queen turned to Lady Devoted, looking some-
what petulant. "Must I?"

"You did promise me. Your Majesty. And it is such
a little thing."

The queen did not look happy, but she nodded. "Very
well." she turned to Jack. "A parting gift, Lord Teaser."

The queen changed. It was like the first time Jack had

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seen transformation in Lady Devoted, only the queen
did not change into a different person. She was still the
queen. She was still lovely past all understanding.
She was not however, perfection.
Jack saw the age in her eyes. He saw the faint tracings
of veins under skin so delicate it seemed worn smooth,
like stone. Jack realized that he was seeing her as she
really was, and the goddess that he had loved because
he had no choice was now only what she was and no
more. The spell was broken. Jack's soul was his own
again. He kissed the hand she offered and bowed low.
Now the king reached put and took her hand from
him, holding it close. "That was my queen's gift. Mine
is that I will not finish the hunt I began last night."

The queen smiled almost shyly. "My Lord, you al-
ready have. Or have you forgotten already?"
He smiled, too. "That," he said, "I have not."
Without another word the royal couple turned away,
walking together off into the forest where they were
joined by other members of their entourage. As they
disappeared Jack heard one final time the soft chords of
the hidden music.

"The king's anger seems to have passed. Could I re-
main here?" Jack asked.

"Certainly," Lady Devoted said. "And the next time
you see Her Majesty, the Glamour will be in place and
you will be hers again. She will make you love her and you
will go to her, and sooner or later the king will catch
you. In fact, I'd help him."

Jack wondered if that was a trace of jealousy in Lady
Devoted's eyes. Jack sighed. "I'm a fool."

She smiled then. "I know. It's part of why I chose
you."

"What was the other part? You never did answer
me."

"Because you like women, Jack," she said frankly,
"and that's rarer than you think. It was never conquest
with you, no matter what the number. I knew you would
look on my mistress and love her. Any man would desire
her, but desire is fleeting and, in the fullness of time,
meaningless." Lady Devoted smiled again, and it was
the smile of a cat—all teeth. "But love? That's very dif-

MY LORD TEASER

313

ferent. Love is a proper threat. One that would rouse
the queen to ardor and the king to defend his rights.
That was what my test at the inn was all about. Now
let's be gone."

They reached the edge of the woods in no time at all.
Jack looked out into the sunshine, which seemed almost
impossibly bright compared to the twilight of fairie.

"You've received gifts from my Lord and Lady," Lady
Devoted said. "But I have a gift for you, too, Lord
Teaser. It waits for you beyond these woods. You will
know it when you find it. I hope you will use it wisely."

"Will I see you again?" he asked.

She smiled a bit sadly. "Do you want to?"

Jack thought about it. "Yes."

"Then the answer is no. You will never see me again.
And that's kinder than you can possibly imagine."

She raised a hand in farewell, and then Lady Devoted
was gone. Jack looked about for a bit, though he knew
he would not see her.

Sir Kevin be damned.

He rode out into the sunlight. There was no sign of
Sir Kevin either. It was a beautiful day. Running Jack
pointed Reynard back down the road he had come two
days before, but otherwise let Reynard set the pace.
There was no hurry.

No hurry at all, as it happened.

It wasn't until he reached Grosvenor Castle that he
discovered Lady Devoted's gift. The current Master of
Grosvenor was away, but the affable cook was more
than happy to tell of Sir Kevin.

"He's dead, young man. Killed on Crusade nearly fif-
teen years ago. He took the Cross five years after he'd
given up the search for the man called Running Jack.
He was never the same, after. Just between us two, I
think he sought his death in the Holy Land."

Jack was too human not to feel a great relief, even
with the slight regret that came with it. Sir Kevin had
deserved better but then, Jack reminded himself, so
had he.

Jack was surprised to find gold in his saddle pouch
when he got around to opening it later, but he knew the

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Richard Parks

gold was a mere token. The real gift was time. The King
of the Sidhe may have spared Jack's life, but it was Lady
Devoted who had really given his life back to him.

To truly honor this gift, I need to make the best use
of it.

So he did. Jack used the gold to buy himself an inn,
since he knew most of the tricks of avoiding payment
and could prevent them. In time he found another
woman to his liking and married, and had a family. He
made mistakes enough, over the years, but unlike before
they were mostly new ones. Which, Jack decided, was
about as much wisdom as he could hope for.

As the years went by, Jack found his memory of the
glorious Fairie Queen starting to fade. It was Lady De-
voted's face that remained with him, her that he remem-
bered best. If there was any meaning to that beyond a
trick of memory, he never knew; but to Jack's everlast-
ing relief and regret the Lady Devoted remained true to
the only promise she ever made to him—he never saw
her again.

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